


The Consequence of Courage (And its Many Applications)

by yourguardianangel



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Development, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Fix-It, Fluff, Happy Ending, Humor, M/M, Universe Alterations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-03-13 22:22:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3398390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourguardianangel/pseuds/yourguardianangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Bilbo was choking.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>  <em>His lungs burned with the acrid tang of smoke. Through his streaming eyes, the harsh light of enchanted fires and the glint of dirty orc steel blurred and swam in the darkness. The panicked yells of the dwarves, helplessly clinging to the falling pine tree, were a bold clash against the shrieking cacophony of snapping roots, fierce Warg howls, and the popping of the flames. Above all that, Bilbo heard the sound of Thorin’s skull crunching against stone, his body falling limp against the dry ground. A spike of sharp fear jolted through Bilbo’s chest, and his troubled breathing hitched.</em></p><p>  <em>No.</em></p><p>***</p><p>Bilbo takes a leap of faith during the pine tree altercation between the company and Azog, and the repercussions that follow force all the members of the company to re-evaluate the worth of their burglar.  </p><p>One dwarven king included.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And So the Path Changes

Bilbo was choking.

His lungs burned with the acrid tang of smoke. Through his streaming eyes, the harsh light of enchanted fires and the glint of dirty orc steel blurred and swam in the darkness. The panicked yells of the dwarves, helplessly clinging to the falling pine tree, were a bold clash against the shrieking cacophony of snapping roots, fierce Warg howls, and the popping of the flames. Above all that, Bilbo heard the sound of Thorin’s skull crunching against stone, his body falling limp against the dry ground. A spike of sharp fear jolted through Bilbo’s chest, and his troubled breathing hitched.

_No._

Bilbo’s knuckles were white on the sharp, splintered wood, and he could feel blood oozing from his palms as the great white Orc stalked towards the fallen dwarf. His snarled words were lost to Bilbo as the Warg’s din rose to an overwhelming crescendo, and he shook. He felt in his bones the sickening dread that comes from knowing that one’s death, and the deaths of all those close to them are short at hand, and there was nothing he could do about it. It filled him with unspeakable horror. He watched on, helpless, as Thorin’s head lifted slightly, eyes gleaming molten gold in the firelight as the orc’s sword rose high above his head. Thorin was going to die, and there was nothing to be done, and Bilbo was going to die, and everything that they had strived for, had endured together, would be lost. No one could do anything, watching on wide-eyed as the blade curved over Azog’s shoulder like an executioner’s axe.

_No._

When he tried to recall it later on, to preserve the memories on faithful parchment paper, Bilbo would say that everything had seemed to happen all at once. He did not register the smarting of multiple splinters as his hands released him from the pine branch he clung to, nor did he remember drawing his small sword from its slender sheath as he bounded forward. He remembered more clearly the frantic pace of his heart, pounding fear and thoughts through his veins like venom. His feet grazed on sharp rock as they launched him over the lip of the boulder, and there was a horrid lurch in his stomach as he fell because even in the face of death _that was a bigger drop than he had anticipated_. His fingers would still tingle occasionally, years later, with the unforgettable feeling of flesh parting around a blade like butter, and his shoulder still ached the way it had when he hit the ground at an odd angle, smacking his head hard enough to make his ears ring. His chest heaved as he lifted himself with a groan onto one elbow. Dark ash had fallen into one of his eyes, but he was too dazed to do anything about it. He looked up, blinking through blood and smoke to see the hellish silhouette of the great pale orc as it dropped down onto one knee like a king’s subject. The blade in the orc’s hand fell to the parched earth behind it with a dull clatter. All was silent for a single moment as, ever so slowly, the great head of Azog the defiler slid to one side, and then with a wretched slurp separated entirely off his shoulders.

Bilbo staggered to his feet, the elven blade limp in his hand as he stood. His eyes grew wide in his bloodless face as he stared at the slain orc leader. His gaze trailed from the corpse, smaller in death, to the blackened, glowing blade in his hand, and then to the goblins, who were still frozen and mute in shock.

“Bilbo..?” Thorin’s voice was quiet and deathly thin behind him, and the moment of peace shattered with the curdled growl of wargs and riders alike. Bilbo took a step backward, raising his sword again as best as he could with his throbbing shoulder, as the orcs began to close ranks upon him. His eyes narrowed against the firelight and he levelled them with the fiercest glare a hobbit could muster. His mind was already set; if his life was the price that he had to pay for even one of those damn dwarves to survive the night, then so be it. Bilbo fancied, fleetingly, that the orcs could sense his resolution, for they were proceeding with somewhat more caution than they had treated him with previously. The first lights of dawn were beginning to steep the sky in pale hues, blinking out the stars one by one above Bilbo’s head. One of the orcs opened its gnarled mouth, set in a face bloated and pale like a drowned man’s, and began to snarl out cruel words in a language that he didn’t understand. It hadn’t finished talking when Bilbo saw the swift shadow pass above them, and he looked up as enormous talons swept three of the orc riders clean off their steeds. As quickly as it had been there, it was gone again, and Bilbo reeled to try and see what it was. The dark shape had enormous wings, and as it turned in a sharp arc, Bilbo felt his stomach drop. Was it a dragon? Had the great and terrible Smaug heard of their expedition and flown out to destroy them before they even got close to their goal?

Another shadow descended from above as swiftly as the first, and Bilbo caught the definite sight of feathers and a wicked beak as it yet again targeted the wargs and their fallen masters. _It doesn’t matter what they are,_ a part of Bilbo’s mind yelled at him, _they seem perfectly capable of killing you all the same!_ Bilbo turned, rushing to Thorin’s side and crouching over him protectively as several more of the enormous birds dove at the precipice. Bilbo thrust a battered hand under the dwarf’s chin, feeling around for a pulse, his other hand fluttering above Thorin’s mouth and nose to feel desperately for a breath. It was a shallow, wretched breath, but a steady one all the same, and Bilbo breathed a small breath of relief at the small mercies. The orcs were in chaos, thrown this way and that by the birds, as one by one Bilbo saw each member of the company scooped up from the falling fir tree in enormous talons. He felt a powerful blast of air above him and curled his body instinctively over Thorin’s like a shield, clenching his eyes shut as claws wrapped around them both with surprising care. There was a sickening lurch as their captor, Bilbo assumed, plummeted from the edge of the cliff into the open air. It levelled out with more grace than what Bilbo felt, its wings beating sharply to bring them in line with the rest of the eagles. Bilbo chanced opening one eyes and caught a glimpse of the burning cliff sinking away from them as they rose ever higher. Thorin’s face was close enough for Bilbo to see his lips twitching in whatever troubled dreams he was experiencing, but his breathing was steadying and Bilbo took that as a positive sign in the face of their situation. _The others,_ he thought, with a hot bolt of guilt and panic _where are the others_?

He twisted his head as best as he could, stuck between a large avian claw and the solid chest of an unconscious king. The other company members were easy enough to spot; some had climbed around onto the birds backs, others seemed too awe struck or terrified to move from where they were held in claws. They all looked relatively unscathed, none more injured than the others, and they were too busy exchanging wide eyed glances of mute astonishment to pay much mind to him. They did not seem concerned that they were currently being carried away by giant birds of prey like field mice. His heart was still pounding with adrenalin and his thoughts were racing yet again as he tried to catch someone’s eye, tried to wordlessly find out whether they were _safe_. Gandalf’s eyes locked onto him, a picture of serenity as he sat astride the back of one of the eagles, hair billowing like an iron banner behind him. The wizard smiled wryly at him, nodding ever so slightly, and that was all Bilbo needed.

The tears came of their own accord, springing up as his whole body shook with relief. He did not bother to stifle his wrecked sobs as he wept, openly, into Thorin’s fur coat. It wasn’t as though he would ever know, anyway, and no one else could hear him above the bracing wind. It was over; they had survived once again, despite everything that had happened. Bilbo’s stomach heaved at the realization that he had _killed_ something, something that breathed and thought and had desires, even if those desires happened to be their cold-blooded slaughter. He did not know how long exactly it took him to calm down, but he was once again in control of himself by the time the sun broke, pale and resolute, over the horizon. Its wintry rays and the searing wind pried the tears from his grimy cheeks, and he closed his eyes. Every part of him felt drained, and battered, and the image of his kettle boiling away on his stove sprung up in one of the more wistful corners of his mind. The usual pangs of homesickness were dulled by his exhaustion, and he found that his idle memories of the kettle’s quiet bubbling brought him comfort. He allowed himself to imagine making himself a long and lazy breakfast of scones, eggs and tea as he lay pressed against an injured dwarven king, hundreds of feet above the ground, with the last stars of a sleepless night lingering in the pale sky behind him.

Their eagle was the last to deposit its cargo upon the great jutting rock above the pines. The others were gathered anxiously, and Gandalf appeared to be speaking with one of the birds, as they were released upon the rock’s smooth surface. The moment they touched down on solid ground, Bilbo was moving, leaning close over Thorin’s still form and checking him over. He was tentative at first, his hands wavering in the light of day, but he steeled himself. _It’s not like he can think any less of you, anyway,_ Bilbo scolded himself, and placed the back of his hand against the dwarf’s cheek. It was warm to the touch, and when Bilbo leant closely over him he could feel the steady breath upon his cheek.  
“Thorin?” He said, voice harsh and raw in his own ears. “Thorin, can you hear me?”  
He felt the dwarves hovering closely around them rather than saw them. He continued to say the dwarf’s name, attempting to nudge the heavy dwarf as nicely as he possibly could, when a hand stilled his shoulder.

“He’ll be alright, laddie,” Balin said. His smile was reassuring. “Just give him a moment or two.” Bilbo took a moment to process this, and shuffled to his feet blearily. He swayed a little as he stepped back, and one of the dwarves, perhaps Bifur, perhaps Dori, Bilbo didn’t really notice which, put an arm around him to steady him. Balin knelt down with a cracking of his knees, his great white beard brushing against Thorin’s clothes as he pulled a stoppered vial from a pouch upon his belt. The stopper was removed, the vial placed under Thorin’s nose. Bilbo counted his breathing, watching intently for any movement. Bilbo reached the number ten at exactly the moment that Thorin bolted upright, eyes bulging and his lungs heaving in heavy gasps, like someone being dragged from a waking nightmare. Fili and Kili were fell swiftly to their knees on either side of him, bracing their strong arms against their uncle’s shoulders to restrain him as he turned and shuddered.

“Where is the Halfling?” he choked, head swinging sharply. He flinched in pain at his own movements, raising a hand to his forehead even as he continued his wide-eyed search. “Where is Bilbo?”

Bilbo stepped forward, hands clasped in front of him. His palms were sweating, and he was struck by the horrifying thought that perhaps he had somehow done something wrong yet again. He felt like a child being called to the front of a school assembly for a scolding, only as a young hobbit there had been no threat of being thrown over the edge of a very large rock as punishment. Thorin’s eyes locked onto him like a hound upon a scent, and he attempted to bat his nephews away as he staggered to his feet.

“Would you two stop it, I am _able to stand by myself_ ,” he hissed at them in frustration. They obliged, but only for a moment, for as soon as they let him go he sagged ungracefully once again. They swooped back into place without missing a beat, moving in sync s though following the steps to a dance they had practiced before. Thorin said nothing, but gave them both a brief glare as they stood humbly supporting him, his arms thrown around their broad shoulders. His eyes were severe from underneath his brows, and Bilbo fought his natural urge to look away, to turn and run. It was a look that, even through the still-fading glaze of pain and confusion, would inspire the very strongest of men and dwarves to cower in fear.

“Bilbo,” Thorin said, “Do you... Even realize… What you have done?”

There was something about Thorin’s tone that made a little piece of Bilbo’s composure snap. He stood straighter, eyes narrowing a little bit and a dangerous smile settling into place. _Oh, this is not happening. If he’s about to tell me off after all of this,_ Bilbo thought to himself, _he’s got another bloody thing coming to him._

“Yes,” Bilbo answered archly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Yes, I realize what I’ve done. I killed an orc, I did.” He could feel himself riling up, but the weeks of travel, of his casual disregard at every turn, were pushing at the flood gates and by god, Bilbo could not be _bothered_ to hold them back any more. “Bloody lucky I did, too, else we all would have been dead hours ago. I distracted them all, I did! Who would have guessed, the hobbit could be useful!” he was certain that his voice was growing shrill, but didn’t care. Bilbo shook his head at the sky, that same fed-up smile stuck on his face like wallpaper. His hands had made their way to rest primly on his hips. “I know, god, do I _know_ , exactly how highly you think of me, _Thorin Oakenshield_ but if you can not see that I am worthy of being _here on this journey by now_ -“ 

“Bilbo.” He was cut off mid-rant by a broad, calloused hand on his shoulder. Thorin had gotten a lot closer, and a smile played across his features as he leant in until they were eye-to-eye.

“You saved my life, master burgler,” Thorin said gravely, “and the lives of everyone in our company. If that were not enough, you have also released me of a burden. My grandfather can now rest in peace, for Azog the Defiler is slain. His death has been avenged, not by me, but by you. That is a debt that I can never repay.”

Bilbo struggled to grapple with all of this information. He glanced at the other dwarves close by, but their expressions of wonder and appreciation were as unhelpful to him as Gandalf’s expression of smug amusement. He worked his mouth open, trying to fill it with words, but they died again on his tongue when he met Thorin’s serious gaze.

“I have said many a harsh thing about you, Mr. Baggins,” Thorin said, and he lowered his eyes briefly. “I have never been so wrong. Forgive me.” 

Bilbo gave a small, surprised squeak as he was suddenly engulfed in the embrace of Thorin’s thick fur coat. His shoulders tensed under the heavy hold of the dwarf, half worried that he would squeeze too tight, or that his legs would suddenly give out and _oop, there goes the burgler_ , but he didn’t. Bilbo allowed his hands, his bruised and battered hands, to wind their way up tentatively around Thorin’s middle, and the pleased huff of air against his ear allowed him to relax a little bit.

“I, uh, I forgive you, Thorin,” Bilbo said gruffly. He surreptitiously tried to remove several tufts of stray fur in his mouth. The dwarf’s impractically fluffy coat was very unhelpful in his attempts, simply adding more with every subtle shift of Thorin’s bulk.

“Look!” Ori said, to a muttered chorus of “shush, Ori,” and “not now”. Thorin’s arms tightened, briefly, around the Bilbo’s shoulders, but they released him and the cold bit at Bilbo’s body from all sides once more. They were already turning to look at Ori, and the young dwarf’s pointed finger. Bilbo and Thorin followed its direction to the east just as the sun broke the horizon, spilling molten light across their faces. Bilbo put up a hand to shield his eyes from its glare and a chilly breeze tugged his curls from his forehead as he spotted it. Across an ocean of dark tree tops, far against the dark line of the horizon, it stood, resolute and powerful against the landscape.

The Lonely Mountain.

The journey’s end.

“We’re almost there,” Bilbo said, his tone hushed with a surprising reverence he didn’t realize he felt over a giant lump of rock sticking out of the ground. Perhaps he had heard too many tales of the mountain’s splendour from the dwarves to entirely avoid some level of wonder over its imposing, if still distant, shadow. His words were met with hearty chuckling.

“That may be a bit optimistic, laddie,” said Gloin, leaning on his axe.

“Oh, I’m afraid we’ve only just begun,” Balin offered with a smile.  
But Bilbo was undeterred. Whether it was a sense of relief following the goblin caves, or a renewed thankfulness for the light of day, his optimism seemed contagious. The company took a moment to check one another over for any outstanding wounds in need of attention; Kili had a busted lip, but Fili took care of that quickly enough, and Nori had a twig or two buried in the broad flats of his palms which he loudly declared were ‘merely splinters’ and swiped away the fussing hands of Ori. Thorin tried to wave away Balin, but a stern look planted the king down on the cold rockface whilst the other dwarf cleaned his forehead of the crusted blood.

“Let me see your hands, Bilbo,” Bilbo looked away sharply to find Bofur with his palm open in front of him. His hat was askew on his head but he was otherwise alright, and his mouth was turned up in an imploring smile around the corner of his curved pipe. A prickle of guilt touched Bilbo’s stomach, for his hurtful words in the goblin cave.

“They’re alright, really,” Bilbo said, tucking them closer under his armpits with a slight wince. Bofur tilted his head to one side, and with a single eyebrow of “really?” he coaxed his hands out from where he was trying (and failing) to hide them. The dwarf clucked and hissed as he took in the long gashes across his knuckles, the rusty rivulets that had run and dried between his fingers already. He turned them over delicately between his own gloved hands, and gave Bilbo a severe look.

“’Alright’ indeed,” scoffed Bofur, and he retrieved a waterskin from his side.

“Hold this,” he said, and unceremoniously pushed his own lit pipe between Bilbo’s teeth. He wiggled his eyebrows at Bilbo as he pulled the stopper from the waterskin with his teeth, pocketing it swiftly before pouring the water across Bilbo’s upturned hands. The cold was bracing, and Bilbo gasped in the smoke of the pipe as a piece of cloth was pressed against the many cuts on his hands, rubbing the grime and filth from them. He hissed through his teeth, the harsh taste of the dwarf’s cheap tobacco somewhat steadying to him, and his eyes sought a distraction from the prickling pain of Bofur’s good intentions. He glanced at Thorin in time to see him fending off Balin, who was brandishing a long white bandage at Thorin’s head like a snake charmer. Thorin seemed to actually winning this battle for once, and Balin threw his hands up in defeat and left the dwarf to his own devices. It brought a small smile to his face, and his gaze moved on. Those who had finished seeing to each other had turned to take stock of their supplies and weapons. From the way Bombur was staring bleakly into his one remaining sack, opening and closing it as though the contents may change the next time he looked, there seemed to be very little promise of a big breakfast in the near future. Or, indeed, any breakfast at all.

“There y’are, Bilbo,” Bofur said warmly, patting his hands once. He plucked his pipe from Bilbo’s teeth, and with a grin he spun away to see to his brothers. He was out of earshot by the time Bilbo thought to say thank you, but he let one trail from his lips like a loose kite string as he examined his hands. The dwarf had cleaned them as best as he could under the circumstances, and they were a sure sight better than they had been before. He had tied strips of a subdued blue fabric around them as a makeshift bandage, and even if it wasn’t the fabrics intended purpose, it would certainly make the everyday wear-and-tear of their travels much easier to bear. He ran an experimental finger along the fabric; it was softer and finer than anything the dwarves had brought with them, and Bilbo was certain that he had seen the elves of Elrond’s house wearing that hue of twilight blue. Perhaps some of the elven food supplies had come wrapped in the fabric, and Bofur had simply kept the piece in case it came to use. Bilbo hoped that this was the case, but was thankful regardless of how the dwarf came to be in possession of such a fine length of cloth, especially since the dwarf was so quick to share whatever he had when others needed it.

“It appears we are running rather short on food and water,” Gandalf remarked. He had been taking in the bustling’s of the company with something that bordered on paternal amusement.

“He’s right,” Ori said, his hands wringing themselves in front of him. “Losing the ponies also lost us everything we had stored for Mirkwood. We can hunt well enough, but… But we won’t last the week in the forest if we can’t resupply.” He bowed his head. Dwalin clucked his tongue against his teeth.

“Food won’t be of any use to us if we’re gutted by orc packs at nightfall,” he drawled in his thick brogue. “And the hills will be crawling with the filthy devils soon as the sun sets, no doubt about it.”

Thorin straightened.

“Is there anyone nearby that we may seek shelter from?” the leader asked, his eyes fixed on Gandalf for an answer. The wizard looked thoughtful, his vast eyebrows bobbing against the brim of his hat. Bilbo could see dark scorch marks on the side of Gandalf’s hat, setting it slightly askew upon his head.

“There is a hall nearby where we may find assistance,” he measured his words, “but the master of it does not take too kindly to dwarves, let alone smelly ones. We shall have to get you all washed as best we can, if you are to have any luck at all with his… Hospitality.”

“There must be a river nearby, surely,” Fili said, hefting his dual-bladed sheath onto his back as he stood.

“I think I spotted one earlier, at the bottom of this valley,” offered Oin.

“Perfect,” said Gandalf, “I would suggest that everyone has a good and thorough wash-down. You may not be able to smell it upon yourselves anymore, but the master of the hall will scent the goblin caves on you from a league away.”

“Well come on then lads, the days a-wasting!” Bofur called jovially, doffing his silly hat at them all, and they began the steep trot down the Carrock’s winding, narrow staircase.

***

The sun had not quite reached its peak in the sky when they finally reached the stream. Bilbo’s stomach had been consistently grumbling at him since his feet hit grassy ground. There were a few small mushrooms in the clearing where they chose to stop and bathe, and even though they weren’t nearly enough to fill the gaps and spaces in their empty stomachs, they came as a most welcome reprieve for Bilbo and for the others. Kili was elected as the first on watch for them, and the meagre offerings increased as he picked off a pigeon or two overhead while the others began undressing on the bank of the stream. His successes were met with cheers, silenced quickly by a harsh “Stop it! You’ll scare them all away!” and a small fire was spirited out of nowhere by one of the others. Bilbo had chosen to sit on the edge of the clearing, averting his eyes from the rampant, hairy nudity surrounding him, until he heard the splashes and playful shouts of the dwarves in the water. He was content to wait a moment or two before finding a slightly less chaotic stretch of streambed to wash himself at. It didn’t need to be too far, just enough that he could avoid getting hassled by the others. Also, where the water was shallow enough that he could see the bottom. He was not afraid of the water, per se, but a lack of swimming skills (or indeed, even floating skills) left him wary at the best of times.

“You’re not exactly fresh as a daisy yourself, Bilbo.”

Bilbo jumped at the sound of Kili’s voice so close to him and he swung around. The dwarf was dangling upside down by his legs from the nearest overhanging tree branch. A cheeky grin and a cocked eyebrow betrayed the princeling’s amusement, and Bilbo sighed and sat back a little.

“I’ll get in in a moment or two,” Bilbo replied, “I’m just waiting until it… Settles down.”

“Oh now, we’re not going to be having any of that from such a fearless hobbit,” The dwarf’s expression didn’t change as he kicked his legs out from the tree, arcing gracefully around to catch himself with steady feet on the ground. Bilbo hadn’t noticed the two pigeons and a squirrel that were laced to the dwarf’s belt before. He was about to comment on Kili’s skills when he was being dragged to his feet and roughly prodded along, pieces of his clothing being stripped rather unceremoniously as he was herded towards the water.

“Come now, Bilbo,” Kili placated over the hobbit’s indignant squawking, “We’re all men here, and the sooner you’re out the sooner you get fed.” And before Bilbo could even protest there was a broad hand in the centre of his back, and he tumbled with a splash into the chest high water. For a brief moment, his head was underwater, and panic shot through his whole body like a lightning bolt. Kili had not managed to completely strip him bare, Bilbo having managed to keep hold of his undergarments, which comprised of a knee length, baggy pair of under trousers, and the bandages on his hands. The pull of the water was greater than it appeared from above the surface, the weight of his clothing tugging him down and along with the flow. He flailed, trying to get a foothold on the slick, pebbled creekbed, and strong hands gripped him beneath his armpits like a child. They pulled against the tug of the water, and he clawed for breath as his head broke the surface. Rivulets were running down through Bilbo’s flattened hair as he spluttered and coughed. Whoever was holding up chuckled.

“You can’t go tossing wee Bagginses into streams, Kili! They’ll have your head in your sleep!” Dwalin called, and Kili’s look of apology softened Bilbo a little.

“I’m alright, I just… I just lost my footing is all,” Bilbo offered. “You can put me down now, Mister Dwalin, I shall be quite alright now.”

There was a huff of amusement, and Dwalin lowered him until his feet found purchase below him.

“If you insist, Mr. Baggins,” Dwalin said, and he bowed his head close to murmer “the water is shallower towards the centre.”  
“Thank you,” Bilbo said, eying him gratefully, and Dwalin gave him a quick nod before returning to his tuneless singing as though nothing had happened.

No one else seemed to have really noticed their goings-on, too preoccupied with splashing each other and cleaning off the grime of the last few weeks. There was another great splash behind him, and Bilbo turned to catch an eyeful of Balin hobbling naked across the bank to take up watch, and an enormous ripple where Kili had hit the water. His brother was quick to wrap him in a headlock, and they scuffled near the riverbank. Bilbo waded his way through the water until he was standing mid-torso in the water, and with nothing else for it, he began to clean himself as best he could. He had lost all of his cleaning toiletries in the goblin caves, but he didn’t feel like asking one of the others to borrow theirs. They were in short enough supply as it was, and despite what Gandalf had said about not being able to smell themselves, Bilbo was _certain_ that the dwarves needed their soaps and scrubbing brushes more than he did. His toes felt around for a suitably scratchy pebble beneath the water, and he fished it out easily enough as his own make-shift scrubbing brush. It was difficult to avoid the numerous cuts and scrapes and bruises, so plentiful were they upon his body, that he ultimately gave up and scrubbed everywhere indiscriminately, wincing often as the edge of a scab would lift under his harsh attention.

“Would you like some soap?” Bilbo lifted his head from where he had been examining his fingernails. Thorin was holding out an open hand, a lumpy bar of soap sitting on his palm. Thorin’s face was as stony as it had been when they ad first met, but his eyes were boring into him.

“I…” Bilbo faltered. Paused. “Thank you.” Thorin’s eyes snapped to Bilbo’s hands as he reached out to take it from him. Quicker than an eel, Bilbo found his hands under the firm grip of the dwarf, his heavy eyebrows pulled down in a frown.

“What did you do?” Thorin asked him, staring at his bandages as though he would like to set them on fire. Bilbo felt a flush travel unreasonably up his chest. He scolded himself a little for his reaction; _it’s not like he’s any better, he’s got a bloody headwound,_ Bilbo reminded himself.

“The tree we were in on that cliffside,” Bilbo offered in explanation, “the bark cut me when it fell over. It’s alright, I got rid of the splinters and Bofur helped me get them bandaged up.” Thorin said nothing, still glaring intently at Bilbo’s hands as though they had personally wronged him, and Bilbo stood for a long awkward moment in silence, trapped by the dwarven king for the second time that day. He cleared his throat, and Thorin blinked, coming back to himself. He released Bilbo’s hands, pressing the bar of soap between them before wading back to join the others. Bilbo looked down at the soap, back at the dwarf’s broad back, and then brushed off any odd thoughts. Thorin was just acting a little odd as a result of a concussion, or hunger, or lack of sleep, Bilbo reasoned. A smaller, quieter part of him hoped that maybe, _maybe_ , the dwarf truly was recognising him as one of his own now. Maybe everything would change for the better.

Bilbo finished up his bathing and retreated from the water just as Balin called for them to eat.


	2. Of The Birds and the Buds

The journey to the hall of the Skin-Shifter, as Gandalf had so nicely avoided telling them until they were too close to turn back, was brightened by the small meal they had managed to scrounge together before setting off. The sun dried them off quickly enough, and there were herbs and berried aplenty throughout the woodland to keep their remaining hunger at bay. Thorin’s soap had been returned to him in much the same way he had given it, with an outstretched hand from the Halfling- _Bilbo,_ he reminded himself- and a few hastily murmured thank yous.

Thorin hadn’t expected the hobbit to forgive him so quickly, despite his hopes. His wariness was to be expected. Thorin had earned it, after all. He had spent far longer treating the hobbit with disdain than he had with kindness, making a point of excluding him often enough that even the daftest of their company would have noticed. He fidgeted with a loose thread on his vambrace as he recalled his less-than-stellar behaviour. There was nothing he could do about it now, he told himself, other than to prove his altered regard to the hobbit in whatever way he could. He eyed the hobbit, walking ahead of him in the line. He could spot the short, curly head of hair easily above the darker braids and curls of his dwarven comrades, the little sword they had given him bouncing at his side. Thorin wondered at the hobbit’s sure feet, bare and unadorned as always as they picked their away across the pebbled and uneven ground. He had lost some of his softness since the beginning of the journey, a softness which Thorin had seen at the beginning of the journey as yet another sign of the Hobbit’s incompetence. It had been somewhat replaced with the muscle and wire that one would expect of an adventurer, but Thorin found his mind reminiscing on the days when Bilbo’s clothes didn’t hang loosely on his already slight frame, and his eyes sought out the parts of the hobbit’s body that had not lost their comforting roundness. He settled on Bilbo’s forearms, which were exposed by his rolled up sleeves, and despite the cuts and bruises were the same as they had always been, healthy and browned by the sun of the Shire and many an afternoon spent in the comfort of his garden beds. However, the sight of the hobbit’s forearms led to the sight of his bandaged hands, and a twinge of guilt struck Thorin. It was his fault that the burglar’s hands had been injured. Really, he thought, it was in the best interests of the whole company that those deft fingers, which they had hired for their swiftness and sneaky functions, were able to heal in the best of conditions. Not wrapped in those filthy elven rags from Elrond’s airy, nature-invaded home.

Thorin wondered where Balin’s bandages had gotten to.

***

Far away, in the ruined stronghold of Dolgol-Dur, a report was given of the death of Azog by a quailing underling of an orc. It choked on its own black blood before it was able to truly comprehend the weight of its own words, to truly understand the repercussions of an army on the rise left without a leader. Its last thoughts were of the harsh, piercing screams of the nine, and the searing flames that burned in the shape of an eye before its fading sight.

A voice that ate at the inside of one’s skull whispered out of the unnatural darkness to the goblin soldier behind the heap of ex-orc. The goblin was as fond of darkness and evil as the next of his kin, but the invasive, all-consuming _fear_ that accompanied the voice set his very being on edge. It was his miserable life’s aim to _inspire_ fear, not to be the subject of it, and yet here he was, quailing before the voice in exactly the same way as his predecessor as it placed the words into his mind.

_Bring me Bolg._

***

Bombur had almost cried at the sight of fresh bread and honey that Beorn’s dogs placed upon the low, long banquet table. They had piqued the shape-shifter’s interest easily enough with their winding stories of the adventure so far, and Thorin had found that his company all had quite a lot to say in favour of the halfling. The more that they related their adventures to the hulking beast of a man, the more Thorin found Bilbo’s name coming up in ways he had previously overlooked. Perhaps it was only because he had realized the surprising capacity of the hobbit, but Thorin caught himself staring off into space in Bilbo’s general direction. His gaze was drawn there out of idle curiosity more than anything, and each time he caught himself at it he would clear his throat and look the other way. The shapeshifter had allocated them mattresses to sleep upon, and the relief of the company was apparent. A few of them even pulled out their remaining instruments, striking up a merry tune or two as the sun set and the others tended to themselves. Thorin took the time to settle in and clean orcrist, which was still crusted in dry goblin filth from the days previous. Though the task was not a particularly appetizing one, it was repetitive enough to calm his thoughts and simply watch over the others. From his position upon a set of rough-hewn wooden stairs, he could see most of the company spread out around him. Ori was poised over the top of his book, taking the rare opportunity to sit at an actual table and write down his accounts; Nori and Dwalin sat opposite him, their carving knives sliding masterfully across hunks of wood to form new shapes. Dori, Oin, and Gloin were all smoking out on the veranda, and Bofur was relating some grand tale to Bilbo, who was smiling and laughing at the dwarf’s absurd gesturing. The others had pulled together a band amongst themselves, taking it in turns to play a tune and allow some of the others to dance a playful jig. Thorin’s nephews were amongst their number, and they took it in turns to spin each other round in dramatic loops. Thorin snorted each time Fili smacked himself in the face with one of his beaded braids, which was often, and drew a smile to Thorin’s eyes. _They were a good lot,_ he thought to himself, _when all was said and done._ After all, they had agreed to join him on what was at its very best an impossible fool’s errand, that would undoubtedly end in at least one fiery death, if they even made it that far. That alone was enough to earn Thorin’s good graces for each and every one of them, he thought fondly as he scanned from one to the next. He was watching Bilbo’s mouth moving across the hall, trying to pick out words in its shapes when someone spoke from behind him.

“Found a reflection yet?” Thorin turned to look at the person addressing him, brow furrowing slightly. Balin was watching him, his eyes narrowed in shrewd observation, his eyes dipping to Thorin’s hands. Thorin too looked down, and realized that he had quite forgotten that he was polishing his sword. It gleamed beneath his fingers, his own blue eyes peering up at him from its surface.

“It would seem so,” Thorin allowed. He was wary of Balin; no good could come from that expression on his face.

“That was a very kind thing you did for Master Baggins this morning, Thorin,” Balin said. He was watching Thorin intently, studying him, and Thorin lowered his eyes to his sword. He gave it another wipe with the cloth in his hand.

“What I said was true,” he shrugged, inspecting the edge of the blade, “I was wrong. He deserved to know that.”

“Indeed.” Balin’s shoulders bounced in a silent chuckle. He lowered himself down to sit by Thorin, and they appreciated each other’s silence for a few moments.

“We’re making good time, aren’t we, despite the problems we had in the mountains,” Balin remarked. “Surprisingly good time. I do not doubt that we shall reach Erebor by Durin’s day.”

Thorin snorted.

“Be careful not to count our blessings too quickly, Balin. We have a long way yet to go.” Balin patted him on the shoulder.

“All the same, I can not help feeling rather hopeful, can you?” He smiled at Thorin, one eye winking, as he used Thorin’s shoulder as a lever up.

“How’s the head, by the way?”

“It’s sore, but better.” Thorin conceded. Balin nodded, knowing when to pick his battles, and turned to walk away.

“Balin?” Thorin spoke up before he could stop himself. The dwarf turned back to him.

“What did you do with that bandage?” Balin frowned slighty, for once uncertain where the conversation was leading.

“I put it away, of course,” he replied. “You never know when you’ll need a good bandage. Why do you ask?” Thorin shrugged again under the bulk of his many layers, eyes glancing traitorously over at Bilbo. Balin caught his tell, followed his gaze, and sighed, shaking his head.

“I’ll make sure he’s alright,” Balin told him, and Thorin nodded minutely.

He continued to polish his clean sword for a long time.

***

Bilbo had enjoyed Bofur’s company long before anyone else had warmed to him. He was by far the most sociable of the group, constantly regaling anyone who would listen to him with daring tales of his youth that everyone claimed were only half true (and the others refused to tell Bilbo which half) or singing a rolling opera of songs both dwarvish and human, which sometimes the others would join in on. Bilbo found it all particularly remarkable, and indeed, endearing, that he managed to do all of this with his pipe almost permanently lodged in the corner of his ever-smiling mouth.

That was why he chose to spend the evening chatting with the dwarf, their harmless exchanges bringing a smile to his face. However, Bofur was quick to join the small band of dancers and musicians once the sun had set and Bilbo was happy enough to simply watch from his place at the banquet table, bandaged arms folded in front of him and serving as a rather helpful pillow. The pinched, yet contented feeling of a belly filled with food and the warmth of the fires left his eyelids heavy, and he found himself for the second time that day being caught unawares by a dwarf. _Trouble always comes in twos,_ Bilbo thought as he jolted upright, a small clearing of a throat nearby breaking him from his dozing.

“Oh. Hello, Balin,” Bilbo said when he caught sight of the dwarf, offering him a smile. The dwarf returned his smile, wryly, but did nothing to reply to him.

“… Is there something I can help you with?” Bilbo asked slowly. He glanced from side to side, wary that Balin may have been roped into being a distraction for someone else’s jest. The dwarf shook his head, and on creaking knees he knelt down next to Bilbo. Bilbo complied amiably enough when the dwarf delicately prised his arms out from under his chin, inspecting the bandages. He tutted, his fingers working at the skinny knot at the top of bofur’s work.

“There’s a little birdy worried about your esteemed burglar hands,” Balin said quietly to him, his bearded cheeks lifted in a cheeky grin as he unravelled the wrappings. Bilbo raised an eyebrow, but Balin shook his head minutely, and Bilbo knew it was best simply not to ask. Even if curiosity was tugging at his mind like a child on the hem of their mother’s skirts. A long, white bandage was produced from one of the dwarf’s many layered coats and pouches, and he deftly sliced its length in two with a little pear-shaped blade, and after inspecting the injuries themselves he began wrapping them up, quickly and evenly and with a sense of subdued urgency that came from having to do such movements many times before, and in more dire situations.

“Hmph, at least the toymaker had enough sense to rinse out the dirt,” Balin said as he worked. “Or is it all clean because we bathed in the river earlier? Well, it doesn’t matter. One should never trust a toymaker with first aid, laddie, never forget that.” Bilbo was content to let the dwarf ramble on to himself as he wrapped up first one, then the other of Bilbo’s arms and wrists. He finished off the loose ends, not with a rough knot as Bofur had done, but with small, ornate iron clasps that Bilbo had not seen before. They were far too grand for a hobbit with hurt hands, but Balin waved off his protests.

“If it bothers you that much, just make sure you return them to me once your hands have healed,” Balin said. He winked one twinkly eye at him before standing up and shuffling off to find his mattress. Bilbo had the good grace to thank the dwarf before he left this time. He ran his fingers over the little matching pendants on his arms. Something about them seemed familiar, the tangled patterns even and comforting beneath this touch. Bilbo decided to call it a night soon after, and his dreams were filled with dark knot work that was soft to the touch.

***

A golden pane of sunlight was intent upon getting Bilbo out of bed. Its lingering brightness outlasted Bilbo’s stubborn desire to sleep, and he rolled off his straw mattress and onto the wooden floors with a bump and a groan. He navigated the narrow staircase with his eyes still mostly closed, his large feet padding quietly across the floorboards. The warm, tantalizing aroma of fresh bread drew him like a moth to the banquet table, where he found Beorn and his dogs laying out the last few bowls of jam and honey.

“And the bunny is the first to rise!” Beorn’s hearty voice was loud in the strange, early quiet. Bilbo was still uncertain what he thought of the great, hulking man that was their host. He was friendly enough when he felt like it, but Bilbo was learning that not everything was as peaceful and friendly as he had always perceived.

However, he thought of none of this as he stood in front of the table, for it was far too early for such thinking and Bilbo’s stomach was already making insistent noises. He had spent far too long ignoring those noises over the last few weeks, and he was going to have to ignore them a good deal more in the coming weeks, so he felt that it was only fair that he was allowed a little indulgence while he had the opportunity to do so. Beorn offered a place to the silent hobbit, a wide, crooked smile on his face as Bilbo slumped onto the bench. Beorn filled a glass with water for him, setting it down and swinging his long legs under the table as he too sat down.

“The bunny is terribly sleepy this morning,” Beorn remarked to one of his sheep, grinning at Bilbo, “perhaps the dwarves kept him awake?” Bilbo took a long sip from his glass. The cold of the water revived some of his senses.

“I’m just not used to being able to sleep indoors again, I think,” Bilbo croaked, his eyes open a fraction more than they had been. “In the forest, you can hide from their snoring.” Beorn’s laughter boomed throughout the banquet hall, and Bilbo hid his slight cringe. That would certainly have woken at least one of the others, and he had learnt that dwarves were rarely happy risers.

“True indeed,” Beorn replied amicably, “I expect that they are louder than a chorus of kettles on the fire when they want to be, yes?”

“That certainly sounds like them,” Bilbo conceded with a smile. Ori in particular was terrible for it. The quietest member of their company by day, he was able to drown out even the most experienced snorers amongst them with his shrieking and snorting breaths. He always ended up wound up like a pretzel in whatever blankets he slept in, too. No wonder the dwarf was always shrinking in his posture; the poor thing probably had a sore back from sleeping with his limbs bending every which way like a spider in a bathtub.

It seemed that Beorn’s voice had roused at least one other person on that golden morning. There was an ungodly groan as Kili joined them at the table, his face scrunched up in a fashion that must have been quite similar to Bilbo’s only minutes ago. One side of his shaggy dark hair was sticking straight out from his head in a most un-princely manner, and he snuffled half heartedly as he scratched at the unruly tangles with one hand. He stifled a yawn with one fist and then slumped entirely. Bilbo snorted.

“Lovely morning for it,” Bilbo said, passing the dwarfling a cup even as he began to pile slices of bread in front of himself. There was something uplifting about seeing someone less awake than he was that bolstered his energy. He reached for the closest pot of jam nearby, slathering one of his slices of bread heartily and shovelling it into his mouth before graciously doing the same for Kili. The dwarf was chugging water from his cup when Bilbo thrust the bread at him, and he groaned his appreciation as he ripped into it with his teeth.

“I think I have ponies with better table manners than you, master dwarf,” Beorn said. Kili sat up straight, a prim little frown on his serious (if still sleepy) face, but Beorn was chuckling silently at him and he relaxed again.

“Forgive him, Beorn, and forgive us all indeed,” Bilbo said between his own mouthfuls. “We have been travelling for days on little more than wild mushrooms and water.”

“ Ah, how quickly you forget, Bilbo,” Kili said, his voice still croaky with disuse. “We would have starved days ago if not for my skill at-“ it was at this moment that Bilbo chose to deliver a sharp kick to Kili’s shin. He yelped, scowling at Bilbo in the way that a puppy does when it does not understand why it is being punished. Bilbo widened his eyes and tilted his chin down in a knowing way, his eyes flicking quickly over to where their host was watching them. He wasn’t particularly concerned with them in any case, his expression one of vaguely baffled sort of amusement as he stroked an enormous bee with one of his enormous fingers. It that had come to settle on his shoulder like a parrot whilst they were talking.

“And what skill is it that you possess, little dwarf?” Beorn asked him, tilting his head to subtly nuzzle at the bumblebee.

”-He’s very adept at spotting herbs,” Bilbo said quickly. “The ones that keep hunger away, all that sort of thing.” Kili looked as though he had half a mind to protest, but Bilbo had yet to blink, and Kili had figured out that when the hobbit didn’t blink, you had better start agreeing with him really quickly.

“… Yes, I uh… I love… Plants?” Kili offered, one eyebrow quirked in Bilbo’s direction for approval, and Bilbo very nearly smacked his own forehead with the palm of his hand.

It was by pure chance that they were joined by Nori and Dori, both stretching and giving jovial enough greetings to the table as they took their places. Gloin wasn’t too far behind them, his own greetings rolling onto the ends of theirs. Beorn excused himself briefly, only to return a few minutes later with a steaming clay teapot and enough cups to serve them all.

“Sleep well, then, Bilbo?” Gloin asked from across the table. Bilbo was a little surprised at the dwarf’s question. Gloin was rarely one to talk, ever, let alone to him.

“As well enough as one can, I suppose,” Bilbo replied, smiling brightly at Gloin in the hopes that they may strike up a conversation proper. The dwarf merely gave a good-natured huff of ascent and turned back to his breakfast. That sort of behaviour did not bother him too badly any more; he had figured out that it wasn’t so much a sense of snubbing as it was a social norm for the dwarves. They rarely felt the need to waste breath on insincere niceties and small talk. The others held quiet exchanges around him as a steady trickle of dwarves began to pour down from their mezzanine sleeping quarters, some dishevelled and half dressed, others seamlessly put together as though they hadn’t even gone to bed. Balin was one of these, giving Bilbo a friendly pat on the shoulder as he passed him to find his place at the table with his brother. Ori was the one who chose to occupy Bilbo’s other side, as he had left his tome on the seat next to Bilbo and simply couldn’t be bothered to move it. Even sitting on top of its leather bound cover, Ori’s abominable posture left him the shorter than the others. Bilbo was convinced that he would be one of the tallest of their company if he could only square his shoulders a little more. Their elbows bumped as Ori reached for a butterknife.

“Sorry, Bilbo,” Ori mumbled, shrinking away in apology. He did this sometimes, when he did something that inconvenienced someone else, no matter how small.

“It’s quite alright,” he replied, hoping that his bright tones would appease the anxious thing. They did, Ori relaxing visibly before him, and he glanced at Bilbo’s arms.

“I like your clasps,” Ori said, with a tentative smile. Bilbo looked at his arms, having completely forgotten about the little silver broaches at that moment. They glimmered a little as he twisted his wrist to the side.

“Oh, right,” Bilbo said. “Thank you.” Ori’s cheeks flushed a very faint pink, and he buried his chin in his scarf like a turtle as he buttered his toast. The table had become louder with each addition of the company, and was at that moment quite a racket indeed, but Gloin was watching Bilbo with something like amusement.

“He’s right, lad, those are bonny little bandage clasps,” he said, leaning on one elbow as he took a swig of water from his mug. “They’re the sort to identify you as a true member of this wee company, in’t they?” Bilbo was uncertain, his mouth opening and shutting a little as he tried to process a response.

“Why, indeed they are,” Nori interrupted before Bilbo could, leaning in front of Gloin to get the hot water pitcher. “Those little clasps are dwarven, Mister Baggins, and they mark you as allied with our cause in body and spirit. Which y’are, aren’t ye?”

“Yes,” Bilbo replied automatically. “Through life and limb.”

His admission startled a pleased laugh from both the dwarves sitting opposite him, and he couldn’t help but smile. Balin had given him something that was clearly an honor to have amongst dwarves, and if what Nori had said was true, then it certainly had to mean that the others were coming to accept him, not as a means to an end, but as an equal as well. The thought made him look back up at Gloin and Nori, who were both still chuckling even though they had returned to their breakfasts.

It was then that he noticed Thorin, who had been passing them before and paying no notice to them. He’d stopped, poised mid-saunter, directly behind Gloin, and his eyes were fixed upon Bilbo’s wrists. Bilbo raised one hand to wave at him, an uncertain smile pulling his cheeks upwards, and Thorin’s eyes snapped up to his. Thorin’s usually stony features were betrayed at that moment by his eyes, widened like a child caught reading after lights out. A very faint blush crept up underneath the dark stubble on his face and he returned the wave awkwardly before jerking his feet into movement again. Bilbo watched him go with one eyebrow raised as he hustled away to the opposite end of the table. Thorin swung himself into a seat next to Balin and they conversed intensely, Thorin’s brow low down on his face as they did so. Bilbo shook his head. Even if he thought he was beginning to understand the other dwarves a bit more now, there was always one that would remain an absolute mystery to him.

***

“Why is he wearing them?” Thorin demanded, swinging himself into the seat next to Balin and crowding his space. Balin found it rather tedious, really, and sighed into his teacup. Trust Thorin to get his beard in a knot about something like this.

“It is early in the morning, Thorin, you are going to need to be more specific with me,” he suggested lightly, and rolled his eyes beneath his whiskery eyebrows at the hiss of frustration coming from his leader.

“You know _damn_ well what I’m talking about, Balin,” Thorin insisted. He was being careful to keep his voice low, so as not to arouse attention, but Fili had already given them the side-eye before returning to his toast. Balin waited until the dwarfling had turned to one of the others to talk before continuing the conversation.

“You asked me to bandage his hands, I bandaged his hands,” Balin said simply.

“But you _know_ what those clips mean,” Thorin all but whined. One corner of Balin’s lip twitched in amusement.

“I needed to hold the bandages in place with something, those were close at hand.”

Thorin scoffed. “Close at hand, indeed,” he muttered under his breath. Balin was tiring of Thorin’s antics.

“If they bother you that much,” He said, meeting Thorin’s eyes, “then _you_ can explain to him why he has to take them off.” Thorin visibly paled at the prospect.

“ _Fine_ ,” Thorin growled finally, “he can keep them on. But this is not what I asked you to do, Balin.”

Balin said nothing, letting the conversation fall. _Not in so many words, dear king,_ Balin smiled into his cup. Thorin reached murderously for a piece of toast, but he couldn’t hide the way his gaze kept flicking to the little spots of metal that gleamed with the hobbits movement every now and then.

 _Oh, yes,_ Balin thought. _He’ll realize soon enough._

***

The days at Beorn’s house passed in the strange syrupy long-slow that comes from summertime and safety. Most chose to wander the gardens outside, taking care not to harm any of the bumblebees wherever they went. Eventually, the dwarves tired of admiring the greenery, as dwarves always do, and sought for other ways to better spend their time. Some practiced sword fighting, others hand-to-hand combat, and those who didn’t feel the desire to join sat around and watched. Kili was unable to practice his archery on live targets, but was happy enough to take a beating or two from his brother with a sword or a stick when the mood struck him, and their banter was well worth listening to. Thorin and Balin more often than not had their heads bowed together over the map, pondering again and again as to their strategy once they reached the mountain in low tones. Occasionally Dwalin joined them for this, a muttered “aye,” audible every now and then above the company’s general tomfoolery. Their host was often absent, but Thorin had already taken the time to barter with him for supplies and a loan of ponies until they reached Mirkwood at the very least. Bilbo, who unlike dwarves did not tire of growing things, wiled away his time admiring the garden. There was only so much dodging and hitting and grunting he could take in a day, and now that he had people happy enough to be near him, it was easier to feel content at being alone. He found it terribly easy to forget himself in the sprawling array of flowers and herbs and trees, taking wonder in the sheer _size_ of some of them. Even Farmer Tubb’s prize winning vegetables were put to shame amongst the behemoth’s inhabiting Beorn’s garden, growing to twice the size of anything produced in the shire. He ducked deftly underneath the flight path of one of the enormous bumblebees, laden with pollen, and saw it land on an equally enormous daffodil. Had he not had to duck for the bird-sized insect, he would have thought it was a perfectly normal sized bee on a normal sized flower, as their sizes were perfect in relation to each other. He marvelled at how nature had counterbalanced itself so beautifully, and meandered on to inspect the other beds.

“Head in the clouds, Mister Baggins?” Bilbo had heard the murmur of grass against boots for a few moments before the voice spoke up, but he chose to ignore whomever it was, staying knelt on one knee to examine a plant.

“Head in the dahlias, more like,” Bilbo returned easily enough. “My mother would have turned green in envy if she ever saw these.” He felt Thorin leaning over his shoulder, inspecting.

“Your mother grew these?” He asked.

“Well, the same kind of flower,” Bilbo admitted, “but these are far bigger than hers ever were. They were her pride and joy,” Bilbo smiled, fond memories of her tending to the individual flowerbuds every year like children warming the corners of his mind. “She used to take them to market sometimes. Best flowers in the shire, my mother grew.” He was surprised when Thorin knelt down beside him, the gentle movement of his ever-present winter tunic spreading out behind him. He ran his fingertips over one of the many-petalled flowers.

“They’re beautiful,” Thorin said. Bilbo glanced at the dwarf. He was staring intensely at the flower, frowning at it as though it would divulge some secret to him, if only he held eye contact with it for long enough. Bilbo smiled; Thorin always took things so seriously.

“Make sure not to handle it too much, you’ll damage the petals,” Bilbo said. Thorin’s hand recoiled as though he had been stung.

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?” Thorin said, indignant, and Bilbo huffed a laugh at his genuinely distressed frown. Bilbo had to fight the urge to burst into full on giggling when the dwarf turned his wide, wounded eyes towards him. Those blue eyes glanced, lightning-quick, at Bilbo’s still-bandaged hands, but Bilbo caught it. An indistinct idea, barely even enough to call an inkling, began to grow in his head. It eluded him at that moment, and he let it pass. Whatever was niggling at him would come back to him in good time, and Bilbo had patience.

“I just meant,” Bilbo corrected, “that it’s alright to handle them, but flowers don’t like it very much. They don’t like the grime on our fingers; it’s not good for the petals. You’re not going to kill it with just a touch though, Thorin, they’re sturdier than that.” Bilbo couldn’t shake the goofy grin he could feel settled on his face, nor did he feel particularly inclined to fight it as the dwarf rolled back from his knees onto his backside. His face was outside of Bilbo’s eyesight, but his heavy boots bumped together next to him. It was strange, having the dwarf for company, but it wasn’t disagreeable. Bilbo spotted a stray weed amongst the otherwise immaculate garden bed, and tugged it from the soil, busying his hands with searching beneath the other plants for more intruders. He risked a sneaky glance over his own shoulder, only to see Thorin leaning back on his hands, head tipped back to bask in the afternoon sunlight like an overgrown cat. They sat in silence for a long time, Thorin enjoying the light and Bilbo enjoying the familiarity of the garden work.

“My mother, she was a tinker,” Thorin said quietly behind him. Bilbo stilled.

“A tinker?” Bilbo asked, before the silence could stretch on a little too long.

“Yes, a tinker.” Bilbo heard the bowstring snap of a strand of grass being uprooted, Thorin undoubtedly worrying it between his fingers. Bilbo had seen his nephews do a similar thing when they were tired from a long day of walking.

“She… She would make the most beautiful clockwork birds. Gold, silver, whatever metal she felt like using at the time, she would make them from the inside out. They could do all sorts of clever things. She gave them voices to sing with, and wind-up wings that could fly around the room, and little blinking sapphire eyes. Dwarves and men alike would commission her works all the way from here to the iron hills, so finely regarded her work was. They were my mother’s pride.” Bilbo was had stopped fossicking altogether, humbled by Thorin’s admission. He did not turn to look at him, but sat back from the garden bed, hands on his knees.

“What was her name?” Bilbo asked in a hushed voice.He had to wait a moment before the reply came.

“Gida.” Thorin took a deep breath behind him. “Her name was Gida.”

“Thorin, son of Gida,” Bilbo murmured to himself. He hesitated, letting his own words sink in for a moment, before he spoke again.

“Tell me what was she like?”

When he got no response, he glanced over his shoulder. Thorin was looking at him, mouth slightly open, eyes soft in a way that was so uncharacteristic of him that Bilbo felt a faint jolt of alarm. He had only ever seen a similar expression on his face once before, and it had been directed at his nephews.

“I…” Thorin began. They both snapped to attention when Dwalin hollered across the gardens for supper, jumping up from their positions on the ground. They looked at each other again, the moment lost, and a small part of Bilbo mourned for it. How unhobbit-like of him, to be begrudging of the prospect of food. But Bilbo felt, deep in his bones, that Dwalin’s call had cost him yet another precious opportunity in his pursuit of Thorin’s friendship.

“Perhaps another time, Mister Baggins,” Thorin said, his expression unreadable once more, and he walked off before Bilbo could so much as thank him for his company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a liberty in naming Thorin's mother and assigning her a trade- it's never canonically recorded from what I could find, but if anyone knows otherwise I will happily change it!
> 
> This may be the last chapter for a week or so, but chin up everybody, there's plenty of action to go around in the upcoming installments.


	3. Of Paths and Rivers

It was strange, Bilbo thought, how setting off again brought him a sense of relief. He could not fathom it, and yet it was there all the same; an itchiness in him that had been growing for days, that not even a full stomach could dispel. Once they had thanked Beorn for his hospitality and laden the ponies with the supplies they would need in Mirkwood they had departed, and with each footfall Bilbo felt a paradox of emotions within. There was the inevitable apprehension that was built into his little hobbit self, as natural a feeling as one could expect in the face of the great unknown, and the usual amount of anxiety that came along with it. But pushing against that feeling was an undeniable swell of hope, and relief to be once more moving toward their destination. Perhaps he had more Took in him than he had thought.

He found himself considering the matter of one particular dwarf king more often than not. His mind drifted between his home and the enigmatic dwarf during the long lapses in the company’s conversation as they all rode in a steady column across the rolling landscape. So often did he dwell on these matters that he reached a point where thoughts of the bright Shire sky seemed to become staggeringly entwined with the strange, cold colour of Thorin’s eyes, and the shine of his kettle, which he missed so dearly in memory, shone with the same light that reflected from the braids in Thorin’s hair. More disconcerting was the way his eyes would settle again and again upon the back of Thorin’s head, his dark curls bouncing against his shoulders in time with the pony’s hooves. Bilbo was worried that the others would notice, but the reasons as to why he worried remained an utter mystery to him. At night he placed himself at the edges of whatever encampment they made themselves, partly out of stubborn habit, and partly in the hopes that Thorin would seek a bit of quiet and pull up a sleeping roll nearby to him.

Their journey had recommenced exactly three days after ‘the Dahlia Incident’, as Bilbo had come to call it in his mind. He definitely had not taken Thorin’s anecdotes about his mother lightly; on the contrary, he had in fact dwelled for quite a time on the significance of his words to Bilbo. It did not matter that he had barely spoken more than a few sentences to him since then; Thorin had trusted him with information that was not only highly personal, but clearly very dear to him. Bilbo could appreciate the power that a person’s loved ones held over them, even long after they had passed. Sharing the memories of them with another, even a long time after their death, well… Bilbo understood the depth of trust that such a thing required. It was a positive sign, and as a positive sign Bilbo did take it. He wanted, however, to somehow help along the limping gait of their would-be friendship. Ways in which he could do that, however, had utterly eluded him thus far. It was on his fourth day of pondering the issue that he finally resolved to simply wait, and allow Thorin to come to him. For it was Thorin who had joined him in the garden in the first place, was it not? It made sense that it could happen again. He would just let alone, and do his best to make sure that their travels went as smoothly as they possibly could when their resident wizard was going to be leaving them at the mercy of Mirkwood. Already he could see the dark tangle of trees in front of them, looming ever closer to their party. Bilbo had a rather ominous feeling about the next part of their journey, but had already learnt it was best to keep his reservations to himself when a situation simply could not be helped.

Yes, perhaps focussing on the journey was the best option for the moment.

***

The wizard left them at the very edge of Mirkwood, and as per their agreements with Beorn they sent the ponies running back to their master’s gardens. The rest of their journey through the gloomy forest would be on foot, and Bilbo’s previous enthusiasm only grew yet more dampened by the sheer amount of shadow and secrecy within that gnarled canopy. He chose to stay closer to Bofur during their long daily treks between the trees, as his spirit seemed the least dampened by the long stretches of twilight. No sunlight ever touched the forest floor, and even the hardiest of the dwarves, long used to working in the darkness of the mines, were soon longing for the warm touch of its rays.

Their nights were uneasy and tempers grew short within their circle of firelight and safety. Ignoring the eyes that watched them from the blackness was difficult, and Bilbo found that he slept in fits and starts for the most part, sitting bolt upright on his bedroll in a panic to count the number of companions around him several times every night. He could not help it; his anxiety over the safety of the others had grown to outweigh his body’s own exhaustion from their daily undertakings. The company set up a nightly watch routine, taking it in turns to guard over each other in the night.

More than once Bilbo awoke to find Thorin huddled against the bark of a tree, arms crossed over his chest and watching the ring of darkness outside of their small camp, and if he took watch more often than anyone else, no one was going to question it. The way his eyes reflected the firelight, glowing like molten metal from the sharp shadows of their sockets, stirred Bilbo as he focused through the darkness on the dwarf. There was no mistaking the majesty in Thorin’s blood when he was like this, silent as a stone carving and a steadying force for Bilbo’s nerves in the darkness.

Bilbo didn’t think that this feeling was fondness, no. It didn’t warm him inside in the same way that he was warmed by Kili’s easy smile and gentle goading of his brother. Nor was it like the warmth that stirred in him at the sight of Dori and Nori fussing over Ori in ways they both thought were subtle, and Ori doing his best to humour his older brothers without letting them know that yes, he could see exactly what they were doing for him. _That_ was fondness, indeed, and his fondness was what was fuelling his restless sleep. What he felt for Thorin, in those quiet moments over the fire light as the dwarf was lost in thought, he did not recognize, even though it was maddeningly similar. Watching as the dwarf cared for his companions in the only way he knew how, Bilbo knew he felt _something_ , but it was not something that he could name. Not yet, anyway. He found the whole situation to be rather frustrating, mostly for himself, as he had always considered himself a rather straightforward sort of Hobbit with a straightforward understanding of his own emotions. But now it was different, and even if he wasn’t frightened of this new sensation, he didn’t really know what to do with it either. The closest words he could think to describe it was a ‘mutual sense of camaraderie,’ but even that was woefully inadequate, when he was being completely honest with himself. _So much for focussing on the journey,_ Bilbo thought to himself often in those short moments following his startled wakings.

It was on one such night, deep into the middle of their wanderings though Mirkwood, that Bilbo found himself very much in the middle of the night. His heart beat thundering in his ears and bathed in a thin sheet of sweat, he had lurched upright with a gasp of air, wild eyes scanning across the familiar bundles of dwarves spread out around him. Ori was once again snoring in his foghorn fashion, but someone had seen the good sense to put him on the far edge of the group and to smother his mouth with the dwarf’s own scarf. This left the sound at an entirely manageable level, but as Bilbo gazed around he felt a sinking feeling, aware that tonight was one of the nights where he awoke _too_ alert, his dreams just a little _too_ real to find comfort in the darkness, and he would be unable to coax himself back to sleep again despite his best efforts. He sighed, relaxing his shoulders into a slump once he was certain that everyone was there and accounted for, when he felt the tips of his ears tingling. He looked about, to find that Thorin was watching him intently from the other side of the fire. Bilbo felt like a rabbit caught under the gaze of a winter fox, unable to break eye contact.

Oh, to hell with it, you old fool, Bilbo thought to himself, and lifting up his makeshift pillow and blanket he picked his way around the fire with deft feet. If Thorin was surprised by the hobbit dropping down by his side with a heavy sigh, he gave no indication.

“I’m afraid you’re stuck with me tonight,” Bilbo offered the silent dwarf, “I’m not going to find sleep any time soon tonight.” He settled in like a roosting hen, and if he had feathers Thorin supposed he would have been ruffling them around himself at that moment.

“There is worse company than yours, I believe,” Thorin huffed, voice low and stiff in the darkness. Bilbo studied his face, trying to gauge the dwarf’s meaning. Thorin’s eyes flicked towards the depths of the forest, where the constant presence of the eyes glowed at them as though carrying their own sinister light. Bilbo followed his gaze, shivering despite the warmth of his blanket at the sight of them.

“True enough, I think, true enough,” Bilbo replied. They sat together, no words exchanged, listening to the movements of the forest in the darkness and the gentle popping of the fire.

“Bad dreams?”

If Bilbo had been sitting in a chair, he would have fallen out of it, Thorin’s voice was so startling after so long in the quiet. As it was, his jerked up to attention, and he attempted to process the words.

“I suppose,” Bilbo replied eventually. Thorin’s chin dipped against his chest once in acknowledgement.

“You get those often.”

It was not a question so much as a statement, and Bilbo was momentarily blindsided. No one else had noticed his restlessness, or at least none of the others had commented on it.

”I… Yes,” Bilbo admitted. “Most of the time I can fall back to sleep, though.”

“You worry about us. About the members of the company.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

Bilbo would have almost been offended if it weren’t for the earnestness with which the question was asked. Despite this, Bilbo felt a mixture of what he termed _frustrated amusement_ , something which Thorin seemed to elicit from him almost exclusively.

“Is it not obvious that I care for the wellbeing of my companions? I wake up, and panic is seizing me with all of its force, and I need to know that everyone is safe as much as I need air. Is that a crime?” His tone lacked any heat, but Thorin’s brow creased all the same.

“No, that is not what I meant,” Thorin said, eyes roving through the embers as though searching for the right words. “I mean- why? Why do you care for us, when all we have done is treat you poorly for so long? How is it that you can wake in the darkness, mind set on protecting those who for so long withheld you their trust?” Bilbo couldn’t help be a little impressed by Thorin’s own awareness, even if it stung to be reminded that _yes, their cruelty and mistrust had been intentional_.

“Well, not everyone has been as you say,” Bilbo said eventually, tipping his head to the side to lift an eyebrow at Thorin. He felt a conflicted sense of both justice and guilt when Thorin flinched at the light accusation. “Many of the company have been quite lovely, even if dwarves are somewhat surlier than I am used to.”

“But to offer your worries, your attentions, your life in the place of those who have done nothing to earn it…” Thorin was no longer talking of the others, and Bilbo knew it even if Thorin did not. His heart softened towards the dwarf.

“There are worse things to die for,” Bilbo said quietly. He couldn’t quite look at Thorin as he said it. Perhaps it was the late hour that was addling his brain, but when Bilbo finally _did_ turn to look at him, he met Thorin’s eyes, which were already fixed upon him. Bilbo assured himself that it was simply a trick of the light, but Thorin was staring at him for all the world as though he had never truly _seen_ him before in his life. It sent a small shiver down Bilbo’s spine, but he didn’t break that gaze until Thorin spoke.

“You are a rather unusual sort, aren’t you, Bilbo?” Thorin said, and his voice was soft, almost breathless. Bilbo simply chuckled to himself in the darkness, completely oblivious to the internalized chaos of the dwarf next to him.

“You could say that, yes,” Bilbo smiled wryly, “but say it too often and you’ll start to sound like a Sacksville-Baggins. Believe me, you do not want to be called a Sacksville-Baggins. Nasty bunch of uptight and greedy fools, the lot of them, only interested in what my chequebooks and inheritance can offer them. Psht.”

“So the treasure that we seek? It does not interest you?” Thorin asked. Bilbo made a noncommittal noise.

“I hope that I do get the chance to see it, but lumps of gold and jewels do not call me like the warmth of my hearth and the taste of my own tobacco,” Bilbo said. Thorin stiffened beside him.

“I would appreciate if you did not refer to the legacy of my race and forefathers as ‘lumps’, Mister Baggins,” the tone was severe, but Bilbo’s exhaustion gave him the courage to bump his shoulder against Thorin’s amiably.

“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that,” Bilbo replied. “You know that.”

“It’s just… The treasure itself was never what drew me to sign your contract, nor is it what drives me now. Perhaps it was more the way your songs stirred me in ways I didn’t know were possible, and you all filled me with such a wonder at the wide world. How could I refuse?” he paused, shaking his head against his chest. He was smiling though.

“It would seem that the Took blood truly has won me over,” Bilbo said, “For no true Baggins would ever call themselves an adventurer, or have the honour of dwarves as their friends as I do.” Bilbo wondered briefly how Thorin would take his admission, would take his use of the word ‘friend’. It had slipped out before he could catch it, and now hung in the air like a silent opportunity, drifting about on a kite string of thought.

“And those, indeed, you have,” Thorin said, and Bilbo smiled. If Bilbo’s eyelids were growing heavier, and Thorin’s shoulder was getting closer and more inviting to him with every passing moment, Bilbo didn’t really think too much upon it. Nobody noticed their leader and their burglar leaning quietly against each other in the morning either, for that matter, nor that Bilbo was quietly snoring into Thorin’s furred and highly familiar shoulder. Or at least, no one mentioned it, anyway, so Bilbo did not dwell upon it later.

***

Kili was worried.

He was, despite the assertions of some of the older dwarves, quite an observant young one, and what he lacked in personal worldly experience he made up for with a keen sense of perceptiveness that left him rather at odds with his own puppyish nature. He was aware of this, and accepted rather begrudgingly that until he grew a beard, his observations would often be overlooked as jest. It was the job of the archer, after all, to be the silent watcher in the undergrowth, the one that prey passes harmlessly over as easily as a leaf on a tree. It was his job to spot the weaknesses, and the opportunities, and to take the swiftest, most efficient course of action available, regardless of whether the prey considered him a threat or not.

He was a very proficient archer.

However, Kili’s concerns grew more and more justified in his mind as each day drew to a close. It took him, admittedly, longer than he cared to admit to notice what it was specifically that was leaving him so on edge, so restless. _Something_ had changed within the group, some subtle shift that perhaps none of the others had noticed, but as his eyes roved across the familiar faces preparing to bed down for the night, it had finally slotted into place like the piece of a puzzle found beneath an armchair.

He was seeing Thorin _smiling_.

It was not uncommon for Thorin to smile, mostly at Kili himself, or even Fili, and most often when he thought they weren’t looking and wouldn’t notice (Fili often didn’t; Kili often did). He shared his affection best with his kin, and with his closest companions, flashing brief twitches of a grin at Balin over a particularly dry or witty comment, or reserving a more feral, competitive one for Dwalin as they sparred in the breaks for their (increasingly small) meals. Kili had tried to bolster their supplies with squirrel meat and the like, but it had proved a useless endeavour, as the meat was disgusting no matter how much they cooked it.

But that was not the point.

Thorin was smiling, and it wasn’t any of his usual smiles. No. This one was _different._

Kili’s eyes narrowed, and he sank lower onto his bedroll, absently dragging the knife in his hands across the stub of wood he had been idly carving. He hadn’t looked away from his uncle for many moments, but Thorin’s smile had not dimmed in that time, not at all. He was unfolding his own bedroll, slowly, his eyes focused on the work but his smile was elsewhere, far away. Kili felt the most insufferable curiosity welling up inside him over where his uncle’s stony heart could _possibly be_ at that moment.

“Kili.”

“Mm.”

_“Kili.”_

“What?” He hadn’t broken his line of sight from his uncle in minutes, Fili could bloody well wait. From somewhere slightly above him, he heard Fili’s sigh, and his brother’s things bumped his knife hand as they were dropped on the ground next to him. He heard a breath hissed out between teeth, and then the clacking of metal as Fili’s moustache beads bumped together. He sat down heavily next to him, but Kili did not look at him. His hands kept moving over the carving, near forgotten in his hands.

“You’re going to ruin all your hard work on that,” His brother said.

“Fili.” Kili could feel his brother’s eyes on him.

“Yes?”

“Look at uncle.” Kili practically heard one of Fili’s eyebrows raise in question, but as Kili offered nothing else in explanation, he followed Kili’s line of sight across the camp.

“What is it I’m supposed to be gawking at?” Fili asked. Kili could see his foot tapping in his periphery.

“Look at his face.”

“Yes? And…?”

“Fili, he’s _smiling_.”

He heard Fili gasp, leaning in closer to his brother as he did so. Kili didn’t think he even noticed that he’d done it, so used to being in each other’s space they were. He was tempted to punch him in the shoulder to get his breathing room back, but didn’t want to cause a scene that could disturb their uncle’s strange reverie. Kili could smell the dampness of his brother’s fur coat at this distance, the pervasive forest rot beginning to sully even their clothes.

“Why is he smiling?” Fili hissed, suddenly as enraptured as he was. Clearly, some amount of observation had made it into his brother’s regal blonde head. Kili shook his head minutely.

“I don’t know,” Kili replied.

“How long have you been watching?”

“A few minutes.”

“And he hasn’t changed at all?”

“Not in the slightest.”

Fili let out a long, low whistle of appreciation, and Kili gave a single bark of laughter. He nudged his brother with his elbow and got an elbow in return. It was at that moment that Thorin glanced up, to their left, and in the firelight his eyes positively lit up with the most open affection Kili had ever seen. Kili’s breath held in his lungs as he followed his uncle’s gaze over to where the Halfling- Bilbo- was laying out his own bedroll. His back was to them, and Kili looked back to Thorin to see his uncle’s chest swell and then cave, suddenly, in a sigh that could only be described as _elf-like_. Kili gasped, and his knife slipped from the wood and cross the knuckles of his other hand. He cursed, and looked down at his traitorous hand, dropping the knife and wrapping his knuckles up in his own filthy coat. 

“Fool,” Fili hissed at him, as they both glanced back up at Thorin. Their uncle’s eyebrows lowered suddenly, as though he had been caught stealing from his mother’s kitchens, and he straightened his back. His eyes cast around furtively, and Kili found that his brother was suddenly very interested in looking after his injured hand.

“It’s fine, Fili, really, it’s just a little scratch,” Kili tried. His brother snorted.

“I know it’s just a scratch, little brother. Has he stopped looking?”

Kili looked back over to find his uncle staring into the embers of the fire, back resting against the tree behind him, his mind lost in thoughts once again. His expression was stormy, but not directed at them, so Kili released the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Disaster averted,” Kili said, and Fili relaxed back against his pack. They stared at each other, wide eyed, as they processed this astounding and mildly horrifying new data. The evidence was small to the uninitiated observer, but damning to the highest degree to any son of Durin.

“Maybe it’s not what you’re thinking it is,” Fili tried. Kili bit his lip, eyebrows raised, and shook his head.

“Tell me one time you’ve seen him like that before, Fili.”

“But-“

“Just _one_ , I challenge you.”

Fili sighed.

“You know I can’t.”

Kili looked back over at his uncle. He hadn’t moved at all from where he sat, his gaze set, and the only indication that he was not hewn from the living rock was the rising and falling of his chest.

“Do you think he’s even realized?” Kili asked his brother. Fili snorted.

“Not a chance. You know how uncle is. He couldn’t find his way around Hobbiton, let alone his own heart.”

“True enough,” Kili supposed. Kili could feel the moment they both reached the same conclusion, and they did not require words to form their silent agreement.

 _Poor uncle,_ Kili thought, _he just needs a nudge in the right direction._

***

Their food stocks were running mighty short by the time they reached the winding black waters of the Mirkwood river, and the collapsed bridge that was meant for crossing it. The near-darkness made it almost impossible to see across to the other side of its sinister banks, and they decided it was best to simply sit upon the bank and wait for someone to think of something to do about it. Bilbo did not sit, however, choosing instead to drop his pack with the others and try his best to peer across to the other side.

“Can you see anything?” Thorin ’s voice filled the space next to him.

“Not quite,” Bilbo said, his eyebrows pinching together. “But I swear that there’s something over there…” He leant forward slightly over the drop, as though being minutely closer would make the shadows flee and everything become clear. His toes fumbled on a loose pebble and he gasped as it tumbled down into the water. A hand clamped around his forearm before Bilbo had even begun to really lose his balance, and he leant heavily into it to steady himself.

“ Careful,” Thorin rebuked quietly, his tone lacking any of the chill that Bilbo had learnt to expect. In fact, Bilbo would almost have gone so far as to say it contained some _fondness_ in it, but he quickly disregarded that notion. Thorin had not denied that Bilbo was a friend of the dwarves, this was true, but he had not once said that he was in fact _his_ friend, personally, and Bilbo was not one to presume anything of anyone unless it was painfully obvious. _Especially_ in Thorin’s case, since so many of his early assumptions had been proven wrong along the way.

“Don’t want you falling in.” Bilbo rolled his eyes with a smile at the dwarf.

“I wasn’t about to fall,” he insisted, “I just needed to find my footing again. We hobbits are remarkably light on our feet, if you recall.” Thorin’s hand withdrew, and Bilbo didn’t notice the amount of heat in the dwarf’s hand until it was gone and the cool, stagnant autumn crept across his bandages again.

“You are right,” Thorin said, and Bilbo could very well have fallen into the water then and there at those words. “I apologise. I’m afraid it’s a force of habit.”

“That’s… Quite alright, Thorin,” Bilbo assured him. “I’m sure there shall be a day when your quick hands are exactly what I need.” The double meaning of his own words were quite lost upon Bilbo, and he patted Thorin briefly on the shoulder, all the while paying him exactly zero attention and gazing over the water as intently as he had before. He swore he had glanced something in that split second of leaning out, and now that he had an idea of where it was, he was certain he could spot it. Bilbo was, naturally, entirely unaware of the catatonic state he had left his companion in.

“That has to be a boat on the other side,” Bilbo muttered under his breath.

“Thorin, I think I can see a boat over there, I think there’s perhaps a chance that we could reach it.” He turned to the dwarf, bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement. Thorin was gaping at him silently, his cheeks faintly pink, and Bilbo rolled his eyes at the dwarf. _He could at least try and not look so surprised at my helpfulness_ he thought to himself.

“Kili!” Bilbo called. The dwarf sprung to his feet. He looked as though he had half a mind to pull a mock salute.

“Yes, burglar?” Kili replied, a laugh playing on his features.

“We have need for your aim, if you please.” Kili lifted a hand to scratch at the back of his neck.

“My aim?” he asked, and Bilbo wondered if the forest had addled his brains.

“Yes, your aim. Has anybody got any rope and a hook? Something we could pull a boat with?” Bilbo asked, and since he had already gained the majority of the company’s attention, there was something of a scramble to check their belongings for the things he needed. The objects were handed across to Kili quickly, and he stepped forward, next to Bilbo. Thorin had come back to himself and was watching the ongoing exchange with intense interest.

“So what is it that I am aiming for?” Kili asked him, brows folding up like roving caterpillars as he attempted to focus on the far side of the bank.

“Over there, about twenty feet ahead of us, there’s a little rowboat. Can you see it?” Bilbo asked him. Kili grinned a lopsided grin at him.

“Bilbo, I can’t see ten feet ahead in this cursed gloom,” he said, his shoulders slumped in apology. Bilbo huffed, but he couldn’t feel frustrated at the poor dwarf, no matter how empty his stomach was.

“Then I’ll just have to tell you where you’re aiming, alright?” Kili glanced briefly at his uncle, who nodded at him.

“I’ll do my best,” Kili offered, shuffling anxiously from foot to foot like a singer being asked to perform on the spot.

“And that’s all we can ask of you,” Bilbo returned easily, and he gave no grand display of positioning the young dwarf so that he was directly facing the boat. Bilbo explained as best as he could the location of the boat, and how far away it was by his guess, and Kili nodded along avidly. His grasp on the makeshift grappling hook was loose, and he swung it easily between his fingers. The first throw missed, and Kili hissed in disappointment.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Bilbo reassured him, “we just need to pull it in quickly, else it could get stuck on something under the water- there we are.” Kili took a deep breath, his focus completely closed in around his unseen target.

“We fell a bit short just then- don’t you dare make a short joke, Kili, for goodness’ sake- and a little bit to the right, so if you just…” Bilbo placed his hands on Kili’s hips, muscling him a bit into the proper direction. Bilbo saw Thorin twitch in his periphery, and he fought the urge to roll his eyes again. _Talk about protective,_ Bilbo thought to himself, _it’s not like I’m going to hurt Kili by shuffling him around a little bit._

“There,” Bilbo said, straightening himself again. Kili’s face looked incomprehensively smug.

“You haven’t got us our boat yet, Mister, wipe that smirk off your face,” and Bilbo turned before he could see if the dwarf obeyed him or not. Kili cleared his throat.

“Sorry, Bilbo,” he said, but Bilbo could still hear a smile in his voice.

“Go on, throw a bit harder this time,” Bilbo said, and he watched the rope arc through the air. It was perfectly in line, but overshot the mark, and Bilbo cursed. The third time was the charm, however, and with a bit of quick volunteer muscle from Fili and Bombur, they suddenly had one little black rowboat at their service. Several of the dwarves clapped Bilbo and Kili on the shoulders, thanking them and congratulating them for their industry as they piled three at a time into the boat. Thorin monitored everyone as they crossed the black waters, saving himself, Bilbo and Bombur for last. This took longer than they had imagined, and during one of the crossings, an enormous black buck had charged leaping across the river. Bilbo had barely pulled the dwarves nearest to him over onto their backs before it landed with a great awkward clatter of hooves and disappeared into the shadows of the forest.

“Thanks Bilbo,” Bombur said, grunting as he climbed to his feet again. Bilbo’s hand was still wrapped up in the coat of the other dwarf, and the clasps on his bandages were pulling on their clothes.

“Oh, I’m sorry-” Bilbo started to say as he sat up, trying to tug himself free.

“It’s alright, let’s just, let me see-” and oh, _of course_ he had to be tethered to bloody Thorin Oakenshield. That was just his luck. Thorin had sat up as well, and they executed a wobbly effort in order to stand up whilst still stuck together. Bilbo was madly fumbling with the traitorous clasp, the tips of his ears prickling as Thorin’s broader hands attempted to help him.

“I swear, I’ve almost got it, Thorin, just hold still-“ and Bilbo heard the wince of pain as his _other_ bandage clasp got caught on one of Thorin’s heavy braids.

“Oh god, I am so sorry,” Bilbo said, holding as still as he could so that he didn’t tug on Thorin’s hair and embarrass himself any further. He stopped moving altogether, and held his arms as close to the places they were caught as he could. This meant that he was leaning against Thorin rather like a swooning hobbit lass, and Bilbo was simply thankful that most of the other dwarves were on the other side of the bank and could not see their predicament.

“It’s fine,” Thorin said, his voice slightly strangled. His hands started with the clasp that had caused the mess in the first place, stuck in the lumpy woollen cords of Thorin’s tunic. He fumbled with them, fingers slipping on the little piece of metal, and Bilbo could here his breathing _and_ see his chest rising and falling in time with them. He ignored the way his heart was pounding in his ears, and blamed his own embarrassment for such an unexpected reaction to the dwarf’s proximity. It came loose, and Bilbo reached up to try and help with the one stuck in Thorin’s hair, only to have his wrist caught gently in Thorin’s hand.

“Please, Bilbo, perhaps it would be best if I were to…”

“Of course,” Bilbo nodded, kicking himself internally. He would only tangle them further if he tried to help again.

He heard Thorin chuckling quietly, and Bilbo glanced up to find Thorin carefully unbraiding his hair up to the point where Bilbo was stuck.

“You sure know how to get yourself into messes, don’t you?” Thorin looked at him, one eyebrow ever so slightly cocked in jest, and Bilbo let out a small startled burst of laughter.

“I suppose it comes with the territory of adventuring and burglary, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose it does.”

With a small, deft flick of his fingers, Thorin’s hair came free, and Bilbo stepped back.

“Thank you for your assistance, Bilbo,” Thorin said with a flourish, bowing his head. Bilbo smiled and kicked his bare toes underneath the damp leaf litter on the ground. He hoped that his curls were covering his burning ears.

“Sorry about your hair,” Bilbo offered. Thorin shrugged.

“It’s alright, I’ll fix it later.”

_“Is everything okay over there?”_

They both turned at the sound of Dwalin’s voice calling from the other side. Bombur was sitting patiently in the boat, eyebrows raised at the two of them, and Bilbo cleared his throat before calling back.

“We’ll be over in a moment, the deer caught the better of us!” and without a glance back at Thorin, Bilbo made his way down to the boat. They arrived on the other bank of the river safely, Fili offering a smile and a hand as they each disembarked. Bilbo took it, and if he didn’t know better he would have thought that Fili’s grip slipped on purpose. A solid hand on the small of his back righted him again, and Bilbo felt a faitn flutter at the touch. Thorin didn’t require any help pulling himself from the boat, it seemed, and the others began picking up their bits and pieces from the riverbank. Oin was leaning over the waters, a small vial in his hand scooping the water from the river. He saw Bilbo watching him, and quickly stood, pocketing it.

“Gandalf said that the waters of the forest had powerful sleeping properties,” Oin explained as he shouldered his bags with a smile. “You never know when those could come in handy, now do you?” He chuckled, and walked on, and Bilbo found his own small pack easily enough on the ground. They recommenced their trek through the forest, stomachs growling, and as Bilbo walked his eyes found the back of Thorin’s head like a moth finds a flame. The dwarf looked back, suddenly, his eyes counting them one by one as they walked past him, and he smiled at Bilbo as he walked past. Bilbo could not blame embarrassment for the way his whole chest seemed to shudder with energy under Thorin’s gaze, and he ducked his head.

 _Oh dear,_ Bilbo thought.

_Oh deary, deary me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From now on I will only be publishing a chapter once the chapter that follows it is written, so expect a major slow down in publishing times.
> 
> Sorry!
> 
> Hopefully the amount of Fili and Kili in this chapter makes up for it.
> 
> Thanks for the comments and support everyone, it means a lot and really encourages me to write faster.
> 
> Edit: I'm on tumblr, guys, and am tracking the tag "consequences of courage", if anyone is interested. There is some companion art in there for chapter one, if anyone is interested, or would like to talk about the fic and headcanons with me.
> 
> Next chapter up soon!


	4. Of Mirk and Mystery

Chapter Four

They were starving, and there was no pretty way of putting it. Their food had run so scarce that Bombur had taken to whimpering every time someone’s stomach so much as grumbled, and everyone’s tempers were shorter than usual. They had begun to trek for as long as they could each day, pushing themselves far into the evening with damp wooden torches as their guide, in the hopes of reaching the other side of the forest faster. Bilbo was feeling the hunger just as much as everyone else, if not more so. His seven-meal-a-day lifestyle was little more than a pleasant and distant memory as they trudged through the ever darkening forest, which was also growing colder with each passing day as the autumn ended and winter approached.

More worrying still was the heavy silence that had descended upon the forest. Not even the clandestine chatter of the squirrels, long since proven inedible by the efforts of Kili, were to be heard in those parts of their wanderings. There were still shadows within the shadows, however, and Bilbo no longer slept on the edges of the campfire if he could help it. Their dark movements had too many legs for his liking, and that’s all he had to say about it.

Their vision had begun to grow hazy and their feet to grow heavy when they first encountered the lights. The haunting voices singing out into the night were like a dream in their hunger-fevered minds, but the smell of roasting, wholesome meat lit a fire within the company that started a small frenzy. The tantalizing promise of food nearby seemed all too good to be true, rousing them from their exhausted collective stupor.

“It’s the elves!” Kili shouted in excitement. Of them all, Kili had been the most amiable with the Rivendell elves, a fact that Bilbo had not entirely missed.

“Perhaps we can ask them for help,” suggested Ori. The dwarf’s quiet nature had only become quieter with each missed meal, but now he chattered with the others in their excitement. Thorin shook his head at them, glaring into the woods. Bilbo knew of Thorin’s distrust of the elves, but his reasons had as yet not come to light. He had a feeling that they would soon enough, however. Bilbo’s empty stomach cried out in longing for a decent meal, it was true, but all the same he felt a deep uneasiness gripping him as the dwarves looked ready to drop their packs and trample off into the depths of the forest with nothing but their scattered wits about them.

“Wait!” Bilbo called to them. “We really ought to be thinking this through!”

No one paid him one iota of attention, all still talking amongst themselves of the best way to coax food out of the woodland inhabitants. Except for one.

“What is it that you mean, Bilbo?” Thorin asked, and the hobbit had to do a double take at his own name. The dwarf was leaning in close, watching him intently. None of the others were watching them, staring instead towards the lights with open longing. Bilbo knew what he wanted to do; his own belly had been vocal enough about its desires for the whole forest to hear. However, he was being asked his advice, and since this was the first time Thorin had sought for his council, he figured that he had best provide the most thoughtful answer he could. However painful it may be to hear.

“Gandalf said that we should not leave the pathway, Thorin,” Bilbo offered gravely, “if we do, we become trespassers, and if half of what I have heard of these woodland elves is true, you know well enough that they would not take kindly to us parading into their celebrations like a heard of Oliphants.” Thorin watched him for a moment, expecting more. “If… If they’re out here now, then perhaps we are not too far from a place where it is more acceptable to ask for help?” Bilbo tried. “Either way, we stand a better chance of finding our way back to the pathway if we try in the light. We ought to wait, or continue on further down the track.” Thorin studied him, waited a beat, then gave a curt nod.

“You speak true, Master Baggins, thank you,” he said to Bilbo alone, before straightening up and addressing them all.

“Nobody is to leave the path,” he called, to the collective groans of his companions. “We shall not seek charity from a troupe of weed eaters, not without knowing their intent towards us first.” So they continued on, past three more of the flaming festivities, much to the misery of Bilbo’s and the dwarves’ stomachs.

The forest was transitioning slowly from the pitch black of night to the depressing dimness of the day when Bilbo noticed the strange whispering in the treetops.

“Do you hear that?” he asked, stopping in the middle of the track. Bifur walked straight into the back of him, giving a grunt of indignance and throwing out a hand wide to stop the others behind him from doing the same. They were standing in a small, open area where the track had widened and the trees were ever so slightly thinner, almost a clearing of sorts. Bilbo was frowning, trying to pinpoint where the sound was coming from.

“Hear what?” Fili asked, frowning. The whole company had stopped, but the whispering noises, like the slide of fabric across a stone floor, continued. Bilbo looked up, slowly, and his stomach fell heavy with horror.

The spiders were coming.

“Oh, God,” Bilbo said, raising a hand to point.

“Draw your weapons!” Thorin bellowed, and everything turned to chaos.

Bilbo ducked sword and stinger alike as the foul creatures descended upon them, swinging down upon thick cords of spider’s silk. The sing of swords was interspersed with monstrous crunching and clicking noises, as both the dwarves and the spiders dodged each other’s blows. Kili’s arrows were only aggravating the spiders as they dove for him, but a well-placed shot or two allowed his brother to cleave through their bulbous sides like butter. Bilbo gave a shout as a spider fell directly on top of Kili’s brother, battering him to the ground. He was pounding across the foliage, his little sword drawn without even registering the movement. It heavy and familiar in his hand, and his breathing was harsh as he ducked a stray leg twitching above him. With a shout, he swung the blade at the creature pinning Fili, aiming for its enormous stinger. It gave a petrifying shriek of rage, dark fluid spurting from its body as Bilbo fumbled beneath it for the dwarf. His fingers caught around a pair of bulky square boots, and he dragged at Fili’s legs. He gave a groan of effort, shoulders straining as he managed to remove the dwarf from immediate harm’s way before the creature collapsed on top of him. Kili was at their side in an instant, eyes wide and arrow drawn as he ducked down next to his brother amidst the battle. Fili waved a dismissive hand at Kili before his brother could even open his mouth.

“I’m fine, Kili, help the others,” Fili insisted with a grimace. He glanced up at Bilbo, then back at Kili, and Bilbo could see that they were having a rapid-fire silent sibling conversation. After a pregnant pause, Kili nodded.

“Take care of him, Bilbo,” he said, and sprinted away towards a thicker group of the spiders. Amongst the confusing tangle of black, oozing appendages, Bilbo spotted Bombur holding two of the creatures at bay whilst Dori tried to rouse Ori. The dwarf had a nasty puncture mark on his cheek, puckered and bloodless around its edges, and the dwarf lay limp and pliant under his brother’s vigorous shaking. Gloin and Bifur were working back to back, defending each other as the creatures came at them in waves, and Bilbo saw them lay low one of the shrieking beasts before his eyes. It fell to the ground with a heavy shudder, an arrow protruding from one of its many eyes. Even as he watched, one of the company’s members was caught unawares by a beast, and collapsed like a deck of cards as it hit him in the back with a well-placed jab. Sharp fear spiked in Bilbo’s veins like needles, and he turned his attentions back to Thorin’s eldest nephew.

“Did it sting you?” Bilbo asked Fili, eyes roving across his body in urgency. Bilbo’s hands were slippery with sweat.

“It tried, but I think it missed me,” Fili told him, and he patted himself down before shakily bringing himself to his feet.

“Thank you, Bilbo,” Fili began, but Bilbo placed one hand on the dwarf’s side and gave him a rough shove, swinging his sword at the same time and removing three enormous legs from an oncoming foe. It stumbled and shrieked, and Fili spun, placing his blade into the monstrous spider’s flesh like it was little more than a soft-boiled egg. Bilbo stared dumbly at his own violent handiwork, chest heaving.

“Don’t thank me until it’s over, Fili,” Bilbo said, breathless, and the dwarf nodded sharply at him before spotting another of their companions in trouble and darting away.

There were simply too many of them, Bilbo realized. The initial advantage they had gained from Bilbo’s lucky observation had turned drastically in the favour of the dark creatures. The company found themselves being slowly but surely being herded into the centre of the small clearing, swords and axes held out in front of them as a ward and a warning, if little more than that. What little energy they had still possessed at the beginning of the altercation had been drained from them, and there was little more they could do than hold up their weapons and hope that the creatures ran onto them. Bilbo’s heart was in his throat as he too joined their ranks, the heaving breaths of his companions intertwining with his own. Some were wounded; Dwalin was limping heavily on one leg, and Nori was favouring one side of his ribs heavily enough for Bilbo to realize that something was wrong. Some of them were dragging others who had already been stung with the spiders foul paralytic. Ori, Bofur and Gloin were amongst their number. Gloin appeared to have been partially cocooned in the spider’s sticky threads before someone had intervened.

The spiders continued to pour down from above in droves, filling the clearing with their strange, wet chattering and whispering sounds, and Bilbo wondered if this was how it would end. Surely there was something that could turn the tides once again, give them the advantage once more, and-

Oh.

He had almost forgotten.

With his heart in his throat, Bilbo fumbled into his tattered waistcoat pocket, his sweat-sticky fingers shaking as they touched the cool surface of the ring.

He looked up, briefly, searching for something in particular that he refused to acknowledge in his mind, something that would give him the courage to do what had to be done. His eyes were met by a pair of icy blue ones, set with determination, and the hobbit’s face drew itself into a grim smile.

_Too late to go back now,_ his mind told him.

Bilbo slipped the ring onto his finger.

***

The world fell into the same lethargic half-light that he had experienced the last time he had worn the ring. All around him, the spiders appeared to be little more than a wall of shifting night, the horde’s movements appearing slow and clumsy to him now that he was able to move unseen. He ducked through the legs of one in the same way that one would duck through a tunnel of brambles, his fear draining away as the power of the ring seeped into his skin. The creature’s pincers clicked together in confusion at the unfamiliar smell he carried. It did not turn around, however, pressed on by the efforts of its brothers and sisters. Bilbo could hear their voices now, talking, murmuring harsh, cruel things to each other in their metallic way of speech.

Bilbo wondered, idly, what would happen if he took a swing at one with his sword.

He did just that, the blade moving more easily through his victims flesh than it had before. But before, its shrieks were just shrieks, not cries of pain and fear. His knees fell weak beneath him as the creature writhed in pain, cursing and begging, then finally fell still. His breath came in a shudder, and he felt his empty stomach trying to retch, but Bilbo lifted himself up from the damp ground all the same. With a shaky inhale of the forest’s muted, stagnant air, he swung at the next one, and the next.

_It’s us or them,_ a voice that wasn’t quite his own repeated inside his head, _it will always be us or them_.

The spiders were riddled with confusion and anger towards their unseen enemy. They turned around and around, searching for him by sight and by smell, but by the time any of them located the strange not-dwarf they were already being cut down like an overgrown lawn. Bilbo’s blade arced in a silver curve through the half-light, and in the periphery of his vision he could see that brighter beings were also bolstering his efforts. Bilbo’s spirits rose at the realization, and he smiled, picking up a tune as he wove his way between dark limbs. He sang of lazy spiders and clever little flies, and through the veil that the magic ring created he could hear the dwarves laughing and joining into his verses wherever they saw fit.

Bilbo could tell which spider was the leader by the darkness of its body. It was trying to sink its pincers into one of the brighter lights that Bilbo knew, innately, was a member of his company, though it was impossible for him to discern which one at such a distance. He picked his way through the thinning horde of spiders at a lightning pace, considering his own exhaustion, and once he found himself directly beneath the ghastly beast, he raised his little sword and plunged it deep into the bloated monster’s belly. It gave an almighty scream, and Bilbo pulled his sword from its body and dashed out from underneath it just in time for it to crash into the ground. The remaining spiders gave a great collective chorus of anger, and with barely a glance back, they melted into the surrounding darkness once more. Bilbo sagged; the spiders were, for the moment, defeated, and with them the very last of Bilbo’s energy. He sank to his knees, sword dragging against the leaf litter, and closed his eyes.

“Bilbo?”

The voice was familiar but far away, and as one voice picked up the call of his name, so did many others. One of them was almost hoarse with fear, or so Bilbo thought as it echoed around him, bouncing around inside his mind, never truly coming from one place in particular. Through the haze of exhaustion, Bilbo realized that he ought to take off the ring. It clung to his finger, dragging against his filth-blackened skin as though unwilling to be removed, but with a final jerk and a growl it slid off. His hand fell limp into the pocket of his waistcoat, stashing the ring in safety as black spots appeared in front of his eyes.

“Bilbo!”

Heavy, warm hands jostled his shoulders, and his eyes swam as someone crouched down close in front of him. The rancid, rotten smell of the spider’s corpses assaulted his nose and pricked at his eyes; he had not noticed it in the heat of the battle. He had not noticed the way the spider’s legs continued to twitch after they were dead, either. His stomach lurched at the sight.

“Are you alright?” The words came to him as though running down a river of honey, sluggish and sticky in his mind. He tried to focus on their meaning, on the dark strands of hair that hung in front of his closing eyes, anything other than the encroaching darkness.

“Yes… I’m fine….” Bilbo answered, his voice barely above a ragged whisper. He heard rushed murmuring around him, but his mind tuned out of it as though he was looking up at them all from the bottom of a riverbed. He couldn’t feel the slick leaves beneath his hands as he sank closer to the ground.

“I’m fine… Honestly, just… I have to….”

Bilbo’s body slid him quietly into a comforting darkness.

***

When he came to, he did so slowly, and with the smell of damp fur in his nose. His awareness crawled back to him in much the same way as a pitiful and wounded beast, fearful of a scolding, but he accepted it as it came. It took him several long minutes to regain his hearing, his pointed ears filled with a blissful, numbing quiet like cotton wool. The sound of trudging dwarf boots and silvery, unfamiliar voices talking to each other in a language that Bilbo could not understand filtered in gradually, like raindrops at the beginning of a summer storm. Nausea crested over him in a gentle wave, and he became aware that his body shaking against his will. He whimpered, his weak limbs aching as he tried to curl in on himself. _I must look absolutely wretched,_ he thought to himself miserably, but he couldn’t bring himself to care very much. Arms that Bilbo hadn’t even realized were holding him tightened around his shoulders, and a deep, quiet voice hushed him.

“It’s alright, Bilbo, lay still,” Thorin murmured, and Bilbo felt the dwarf’s voice vibrating through his chest. Its quiet reassurance had quite the opposite of its intended effect upon him, and his mortification mounted as he realized exactly how much like a fainting maiden he must have seemed. He was being hefted around like a sack of bloody potatoes, by a king, for Valar’s sake. _Oh, the scandal this would stir if the Shire could see me now,_ his brain thought helpfully through the pounding in his skull. Bilbo had half a mind to argue with Thorin’s words, to try and stand up and take care of himself, but another sickening bout of nausea washed over him. He gave a small whimper, his head lolling against Thorin’s chest uselessly as he focussed all of his attentions on not dry heaving in the dwarf’s arms. A silvery voice came close and spoke to Thorin, if the tone of the voices was anything to go by. Thorin’s arms curled closer around Bilbo again as they conversed in the strange tongue, Thorin’s voice harsh around the foreign words. The elf’s voice sounded placating, and they left them alone with a dainty huff.

“What’s… What’s going on?” Bilbo asked. His voice sounded reedy to his own ears, but he was slowly finding his energy once more, and cracked open one eye. Silver beads swung in and out of focus in front of him. Thorin mustn’t have heard him, as he didn’t answer Bilbo at all. Bilbo gave him a gentle nudge with his elbow, and _ow, when did I hurt that,_ Bilbo thought with a wince as the dwarf looked down at him.

“What’s going on?” Bilbo repeated, and Thorin’s face seemed to relax minutely as he looked down at him, even if his expression was still wary.

“Elves,” Thorin said quietly, his eyes shifting away with a scowl. Bilbo followed his gaze. Even that tiny movement of his eyes was enough to send aching spikes into the back of his skull. He could see the tall, slender guards walking them along, their hair long and straight down their backs and wicked, gleaming swords in their hands.

“Ah,” Bilbo said. He felt Thorin nod instead of saw it, because he got smacked in the face with two rapidly descending braid beads.

“They’re taking us to the King of the forest,” Thorin told him.

“They showed up just after you decided to rejoin us in the land of the visible.” Bilbo stared at Thorin in astonishment as the corner of the dwarf’s mouth twitched upwards. It was the closest approximation to a cheeky, wry smile that he had ever seen on him, and Bilbo was suddenly struck with the resemblance between Thorin and his nephew all too clearly.

“We’ve been captured by a bunch of elves,” Bilbo spoke slowly, “and you’re making jokes?” Thorin shrugged as best as he could with the hobbit still in his arms.

“There’s a first time for everything, Master Burglar,” Thorin told him, his face a picture of nonchalant sincerity, and a smile cracked across Bilbo’s tired face.

“Next you’ll be singing praises of the hospitality of this horrid forest,” Bilbo said dryly, and Thorin gave a low huff of amusement that tickled the bridge of Bilbo’s nose.

“Well,” Thorin replied easily, “it hasn’t been as bad as it could have been, thanks to you.”

Bilbo was thankful that his fainting spell had left him rather gray in the face, else he would have blushed rather violently at that. His pride over the comment faded quickly, however, as he remembered the strange, cold mania that had taken over his wits whilst wearing the magic ring, and he tensed. His hands quivered against his chest as he fought not to shudder in terror at the memory of twitching black legs and metallic screaming.

“Bilbo?” Thorin was watching him, a crease in his brow.  
“I just did what I had to,” Bilbo whispered. Someone had sheathed his little sword for him, and it bounced gently at his side like a metronome, counting the seconds since his horrid actions took place. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and he was filled with a crushing feeling of guilt.

“I don’t like killing things.” His voice had become rather hoarse towards the end of his words, and some of the horror he felt at his actions must have shown in his eyes, because suddenly Thorin was holding him close in an embrace that was _definitely_ intended as comforting. Bilbo’s heart hammered in his chest like the blacksmiths of Erebor that Dwalin spoke of so fondly. He breathed in the heavy scent of Thorin’s hair, his eyes closed as his face was pressed close to Thorin’s neck. Ever so slowly, he relaxed into Thorin’s hold.

“You saved us all yet again,” Thorin murmured to him. “We are once again in your debt, Bilbo. You have behaved honourably.” Bilbo sighed against him.

“I don’t think I was meant to be a warrior,” Bilbo admitted with a shaky breath. “Too soft for the job.” Thorin gave a gentle huff of air.

“I will do everything within my power to keep you from having to behave as one, Bilbo,” Thorin told him gently, “I swear it.” Bilbo hummed softly against Thorin’s neck. He appreciated the dwarf’s words, he really did. But something told him that Thorin would not be able to keep his promise, no matter how much he wanted to.

“Are you feeling any better yet, Bilbo?” Ori’s voice startled Bilbo, and he jerked his head away from where it was comfortably resting in the crook of Thorin’s neck like a bloody great overgrown housecat. The sharp movement gave him a painful headspin, and he groaned. He pressed one bandaged hand into the socket of his eye to try and relieve some of the pressure, his whole face scrunched up underneath it.

“Oh, Bilbo, I’m so sorry!” Ori said, and Bilbo heard him trip over his feet a little bit to keep up with them.

“He’s still weak, Ori,” Thorin said, his tone clipped and gruff. Although Bilbo’s eyes were closed, he could picture the way Ori would be recoiling from their leader, withdrawing into himself at such a dismissive exchange.

“I’ll be feeling better soon, Ori, don’t you fret,” Bilbo tried for a light tone, but his voice just sounded weak and tired to his own ears.

“Oh… Okay….” The dwarf sounded like he was drifting back, and Bilbo swung a hand out to touch the dwarf before he was too far away. He caught hold of a knobbly woollen glove, and turned his head slowly to blink at the young dwarf.

“Thank you for checking on me, Ori,” Bilbo said, letting a little smile grace across his lips, and the dwarf returned it. Ori bowed his head, and Bilbo let him go, tucking himself back against Thorin’s chest. Thorin gave no indication of putting him down any time soon, so Bilbo figured he may as well settle in a bit better. The dwarf’s chest puffed out slightly as Bilbo tucked his chilly hands inside Thorin’s coat before he could think better of it.

“Do you think they’ll have anything edible where they’re taking us?” Bilbo asked idly, and Thorin snorted.  
“They’re elves, dear burglar. I highly doubt it.”

Bilbo huffed, and Thorin let him doze against his chest as they made their way along paths unknown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is giving me a headache. Hang in there guys! There shall be Thranduil soon.


	5. Out of the Forest (Well, Sort Of)

Thorin roused Bilbo when they reached the bridge to the Wood King’s palace. He was exceptionally gentle about it, and Bilbo as rather embarrassed to discover that he had been drooling into the dwarf’s filthy fur overcoat when he was sleeping. Bilbo looked up at him questioningly.

“I thought that you may want to walk from here,” Thorin said. “I know how you are about decorum and such.”

Bilbo felt a swell of gratefulness towards the dwarf as he was gently set down on his own two feet. The ground felt warm beneath his toes.

“You are absolutely right, Thorin, thank you,” Bilbo replied, wobbling slightly. “I’d rather not greet a king like a fainting maiden if I can help it.” Bilbo chuckled to himself at the thought. He swayed as he took a step forward, his knees weak with exhaustion, and hunger, and the strange illness that was still fading from him after using the ring. Thorin smoothly slid the crook of his arm into Bilbo’s, surreptitiously bracing the hobbit against him. Bilbo couldn’t escape the feeling that Thorin had expected such a reaction from his treacherous legs, but the dwarf did not say anything, or bring it up.

“Thanks,” Bilbo muttered, and Thorin gave a minute nod of acknowledgement before they began the walk again, slowly. Ahead of them, Dwalin and Balin were walking side by side, supporting Gloin between them. Gloin was still very much weakened by his experience with the spiders himself, but they had pulled most of the vile creature’s webs out of his beard and off his cloak. Some still clung to his braids in the back, and the silvery streaks it added to his hair made him look entirely older than he ought to. Oin was trailing behind his brother, looking furtively between Gloin and their elven captors as though they were going to try and separate the brothers from each other at any moment. Bilbo could hear Fili attempting to placate Kili somewhere behind them as they trudged closer to the elves’ stronghold. Judging by the poorly hidden snatches of hissed conversation, the young prince was positively murderous over the confiscation of his quiver and bow, and Fili’s efforts to talk him down were half-hearted at best. Bilbo understood why when he spotted one of the elf guards ahead of them carrying Fili’s dual-sheathed blades upon his back in the same way that one would carry a particularly old and smelly piece of carrion. Bilbo wondered vaguely why no one had confiscated his own weapon. Perhaps no one had thought to check him for one.

The gates of the palace opened up in front of them, and closed with an ominous _boom_ as soon as they had entered the palace’s lofty walls. Bilbo risked a glance up at Thorin; the dwarf’s face was set into a stubborn visage of composure, his jaw jutting out slightly more than it usually would.

 _Oh Valar, please let him be reasonable with them,_ Bilbo prayed. Thorin’s air of regal, haughty disdain was a sharp reminder to Bilbo that he was, in fact, travelling around with royalty. It was a fact that he was all too prone to forgetting, if truth be told. He found that it was especially easy to do so when they all hadn’t bathed in days, and Thorin would amiably complain about having to eat nuts, _again_ , and Kili would mutter something snide under his breath only to receive an elbow to the side and a snicker from his brother. Or when Kili would stand behind Thorin and carefully pick up thick strands of his uncle’s hair, arranging it upon his own face in a silly approximation of a beard and pulling faces without Thorin noticing. This had happened more than once since they entered Mirkwood, and Bilbo couldn’t help but smile and stifle a laugh behind his hand when the young prince waggled his eyebrows at him. It lightened the monotony of the damp and gloomy days, and Bilbo had grown rather fond of the young prince’s goofy grin. Kili was always quick to get out of Thorin’s way when the dwarf swiped back at him, swatting at his nephew like a pony at a troublesome fly.

The memories brought Bilbo a strange sense of comfort, warming him deep inside. He was amongst friends, and he knew this. Friends who would defend him as he defended them. He sought courage from this in the face of whatever new peril they now faced.

Elves watched them with a carefully schooled disinterest from the many-leveled chambers and balconies above them. They were led by the guards in a trailing line through one cavernous atrium and into another, along corridors with distant, echoing ceilings. Bilbo’s heart sank as he tried to keep track of where they were within the palace, but the many archways and paths branching out from each hall were labyrinthine. He had no chance of maintaining his sense of direction in such a vast and unfamiliar place.

Doors that appeared to be hewn from the living roots of a tree swung open in front of them and Bilbo could not completely suppress his quiet gasp of awe as they entered the throne room. Surely, Bilbo had seen nothing else like it before in his life, and upon the throne that towered high in the centre of the room sat one of the most regal, terrifying beings he thought he would ever encounter.

The King wished to see them.

Bilbo felt Thorin’s forearm tighten considerably around his own as they approached the foot of the throne. The dwarf’s breaths were coming in hisses through his nose, audible to Bilbo, and Bilbo sincerely hoped that the elven king would not be as cold and intimidating as his appearance was leading him to believe. The elf was reclined in his hair with the casual arrogance of someone completely at ease within their surroundings, his nonchalant posture alien to Bilbo’s prior experiences with elves. Bilbo’s restlessness was all the more persistent because of it. The elf had not looked up at them when they entered his chambers, nor had he done so when the guards gave a brief, murmured report in elvish. The guards were dismissed with a lazy flick of the king’s hand, and he inspected his fingernails idly for a moment or two. They listened to the guard’s footsteps receding behind them in silence. It was not their place to speak out of turn in the heart of an unknown king’s stronghold.

“Thirteen dwarves, and a half-creature,” Bilbo almost jumped when the elven king finally spoke.

“What an odd assortment we have, indeed.”

His drawling voice resonated throughout the throne room, filling the gaps and spaces around them despite being barely above a murmur. Thorin’s arm flinched a little against him at the condescending tone of the elf, pinching Bilbo’s soft arm uncomfortably as it did. Bilbo leant gently against him in what he hoped was a subtle approximation of a nudge, and Thorin’s sturdy elbow slowly relaxed. His face remained grim as the elf spoke again.

“And what is it that brought you trespassing in my kingdom?”

Thorin bristled beside him.

“We did not mean to trespass in your domain, your majesty.” Balin stepped neatly in front of Thorin and produced a quick bow. The king’s gaze turned slowly to him. Balin showed no physical signs of being perturbed, and Bilbo felt a swell of respect for the old dwarf.

“Oh? And what were your intentions then, dwarf?” His voice maintained its tone of disinterest to the point of an art. And yet, there was the unmistakable edge of derision in his words, bobbing beneath the surface of their interactions like a sheathed sword. Bilbo hoped that they could get through this encounter without drawing any weapons, verbal or physical.

“We had merely hoped to pass through peacefully into Laketown,” Balin continued smoothly, “We are travelling on business matters, and we had been making rather good time until-“  
“- Until your _giant spiders_ attacked us upon the road and drove us from its paths,” Thorin growled. The king’s eyes locked upon him, sharp as the teeth of a serpent, and filled with ancient calculation. Balin gave Thorin a pleading look from underneath his bushy eyebrows.

“Ah,” the king said. “Of course. The leader finally shows his face.” A delicate, condescending smile graced the king’s lips. Bilbo thought that it was strange, how such an expression could look so unappealing upon such a finely featured face. “Are you done allowing your followers to lie for you?”  
Bilbo felt a hot flush of outrage himself at the king’s barbed insult. He could sense Thorin’s mood darkening next to him in the same way that one feels the build of static electricity before a thunderstorm. There was a slight scuffling behind them; Bilbo was certain that Nori was restraining one of the others.

“My followers need not lie for me, _Lord Thranduil_ , nor do they do so now.” Thorin replied archly. Bilbo thought it impressive how the dwarf had managed to make the king’s title sound like an insult with little more than the roll of his tongue.

“We are indeed following business to the men of the lake. We were set upon by your _pest problem_ and driven from the path. We took care of your little infestation before any of _your_ subjects showed up. Interesting, how you elves always show up once the hard work is done.”

It was as if a thread had been suspending the elven king, and that thread snapped under Thorin’s veiled condemnations. The king’s back tensed, and although his expression did not change, everything about his demeanour shifted. This was no longer an alabaster statue in front of them, distant and ageless. Everything about the king suddenly made Bilbo think of a shard of ice on a lonely mountaintop, glittering and remorseless and _lethal_. The hobbit shifted his weight, preparing himself for… Mahal, he didn’t know.

“You do not know of what you speak,” the King hissed.

“ _I know all too well the cowardice of elves!_ ” Thorin bristled. His voice shook. The king moved fast, rising from his chair and getting into the dwarf’s space within a few aquiline steps. He was towering, the prickles of dizziness pressing against the backs of Bilbo’s eyes as he tried to look up at the elf. He blinked rapidly, his knees sinking a little bit at the sensation, and leant further into Thorin’s steady support. The king’s eyes shifted to the hobbit, and some of the danger seemed to seep from him, dissipating slowly like ink through a cloudy glass of water.

“What is wrong with your… Halfling?” The king asked. Thorin’s grip tightened almost imperceptibly on his arm. Balin cleared his throat.

“He will be alright, your majesty; the spiders left us all a bit worse for wear, and we have not had enough food for quite some time,” the dwarf offered. Through the black spots filling his eyes, Bilbo could tell that Balin was attempting to amend for his leader’s own tactlessness. The king stepped away from them, and his bland mask of apathy slid once again into place.

“Very well,” Thranduil sighed. “Since your little troupe is clearly withholding something, and you have trespassed upon my kingdom, you are criminals underneath the laws of the forest. You shall stay in the dungeons until you are feeling more… _Agreeable_ to my questions.” The elf turned in a fluid movement, his silken robes rustling as he did so. The guards from earlier entered the room once more, the dwarves’ weapons still slung nonchalantly across their backs, and Bilbo allowed himself to be led along with the others to whatever dungeon the elves possessed.

Bilbo could feel cold eyes upon the back of his neck for a long time after they left the king to his throne.

***

It was late. His bandages itched under his fingers as he waited. For what, Bilbo wasn’t sure. The elves had thrown them into individual cells, dotted around an oddly lit cavern like the pockmarks in Bilbo’s favourite cheese. There was a token amount of protest amongst the members of their company, outrage at the confiscation of their weapons (callously abandoned, Bilbo noted, in a shallow alcove near to the jail warden’s post), but most seemed to realize that it was a lost cause. One simply could not fight a kingdom’s worth of elves, no matter the skills of the warriors.

They had been brought food and water shortly after, and although the meal was simple and the dwarves grumbled loudly about it, it was clear that the elven king had no intentions of letting them die in there. _He’s quite an odd sort, that Thranduil,_ Bilbo thought to himself as he tugged absentmindedly at the wrappings on his arms. The clasps caught his eye in the lamp light.

Really, he should just take them off now. It was silly to hang on to such a garment in his circumstances. The cuts and scrapes had scabbed over nicely weeks ago, and there was no medical benefit to keeping them on, he thought as he tugged lightly on a loose thread. But the fabric was soft and warm as the autumn approached, and his heart filled with a strange and uncomfortable tugging sensation when he imagined undoing the clasps and unwinding the bandages. Since his coat had long since been battered and tattered and torn, it was simply _logical_ for him to leave them on. Wasn’t it?

Bilbo was never the sort to lie to himself about something. He was hobbit enough to admit it; he had grown to like the little pendants on the tops of his bandages. He brushed a finger across the smooth, skin-warmed metal, a small smile flickering on his lips like a candle. Though he did not possess the same obsession with precious metals that the dwarves did, Bilbo still had an appreciation for pretty things and was never one to deny such things. The loss of his brass waistcoat buttons still played on his mind occasionally, and he was glad to have something else to adorn himself with.

Even if it wasn’t a reminder of home any more.

Even if he sometimes caught Thorin scowling at them, as though they had personally wronged him somehow.

“Bilbo.”

The hushed voice broke the hobbit from his reverie. He straightened, tired eyes looking up from his hands. The cell was small, but the barred grate along the top of the right hand wall was perfectly positioned for Bilbo’s next-door neighbour to speak through. In all of the hustle, Bilbo had not seen who was pushed and shoved where, and the other occupant had not spoken up once since their imprisonment hours ago.

Until now.

“Thorin?” Bilbo whispered back, his voice matching the quiet of the other Perhaps he didn’t want to wake the others, surely everyone else was asleep by now, or perhaps he didn’t want to attract the attention of the guards. He heard rather than saw the sigh of relief.

“Thank Mahal,” Thorin murmured, “I don’t know what I’d do if I had been stuck next to Ori’s snoring for however long we remain here.” Bilbo gave a weak huff of amusement. His sense of humor may be rusty, and awkward, and choose odd times to show itself, but Bilbo could not fault him for trying.

“You could use your braids as earplugs,” Bilbo suggested, striving to put some lightness into his tone, “I’m pretty sure it works; I saw Nori do it once when Dwalin was trying to lecture him about stashing coins in his boots. I think the issue was less the boots and more that the coins were elvish, but there were definitely braids where there shouldn’t have been, if I recall.” A low, rumbling laugh startled Bilbo from the other side of the grate, and he smiled.

“I do not doubt your words, Master Baggins,” Thorin managed. Bilbo could see the low shine of Thorin’ s teeth, smiling in the gloom of the cell over. The words came out of Bilbo’s mouth before he could consider holding them back.

“How long do you think he’ll keep us here?” Bilbo asked, and he felt the tenuous levity seep from the air around them, like a memory of an easier time. The question was a valid one, and it had been playing on his mind since the cell doors clanged shut upon him and his friends. Bilbo heard a weary sigh, and the gentle thud of a head against their separating bars. He could see in the dim, golden light Thorin’s forehead pressed against the metal, wrinkles sloping across it.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, quietly. Bilbo nodded to himself.

“Thranduil and my family have not always…. Seen eye-to eye, you could say. He refused to help us when Erebor was taken, turned away my people in our time of need…” There was a heavy, frustrated hiss of air, and silence descended. Bilbo could not think of anything to say, sitting upon his cot on the opposite side of the cell. He tilted his head back, leaning against the solid rock wall, and closed his eyes to the ceiling.

“I’m so sorry, Bilbo.”

The hobbit opened his eyes in surprise.

“Why?”

“Because I was the one who dragged you into this mess!” Thorin croaked, and Bilbo was startled to find that the dwarf so emotional. He stood as the dwarf continued to talk, voice rattling.

“I was the one who was meant to lead us on this journey and all I have done so far is put all of us in danger! I’ve put _you_ in danger, and we haven’t even reached the mountain yet!” He cut himself off to take a shuddery breath.

“I have brought you nothing but danger and harm, Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin whispered, and his words were so desolate, so devoid of the gruff, gentle command that Bilbo found himself pressing his own forehead against Thorin’s through the bars. Standing on his tiptoes, Bilbo didn’t let himself think too much about his actions, choosing instead to let his hands find their way through into Thorin’s hair. He carded his fingers gently through in the closest approximation to a comforting gesture that he could get.

“Oh Thorin, you really are a stupid dwarf sometimes,” Bilbo said. He was fighting against the tug of a small smile, like an insect that he could hear but not quite shoo. “Do you _really_ think that you could have dragged me anywhere? We hobbits are creatures of habit, and if you think that I charged out of my door for any other reason than that I _completely and totally wanted to,_ you truly are duller than a troll.”

There was a small huff that Bilbo felt tickle along his nose, but Thorin didn’t say anything. Bilbo didn’t think he could have if he wanted to. So he held the other’s head between his hands, stroking the dwarf’s hair until his breathing was no longer short, sharp bursts. Bilbo could feel the tension uncoiling from Thorin slowly, through his neck and his shoulders as he wound and unwound the long, tangled curls on the dwarf’s head. He had not shed a tear, no, but that mattered little. Bilbo knew that Thorin wasn’t likely to cry over such things. He expressed his emotions in a distinctly un-hobbit-like way, and Bilbo was beginning to unravel the way the dwarf worked slowly, and carefully.

Thorin only pulled away when he felt the charms on Bilbo’s forearms tugging at his tangled hair yet again. There was a faint breath of amusement as Thorin worked the tokens out of his hair again, but he kept Bilbo’s wrists clasped between his hands once they were free. Bilbo fought the shiver as Thorin’s fingers dragged little patterns over the clasps.

“I should really take them off,” Bilbo said, for lack of anything else to say. “My hands don’t really need the protection anymore.”

“No,” Thorin murmured. “Keep them. I… I like to see you wearing them.” There was something in the way that Thorin said it, some odd depth to his voice that made Bilbo almost want to ask why. _Why._

But he didn’t.

“Oh,” Bilbo managed somewhat awkwardly. “I… Alright. I will.” Thorin closed his eyes and nodded.

“We’ll get out of here, Bilbo,” Thorin said, retreating back into the depths of his cell. Bilbo lowered his hands. Stared at the flats of his palms. Thought about the weight at his hip, the faithful blade that by some miracle no one had noticed, and thought of the other weight in his pocket, far greater than the sum of its parts.

“I know, Thorin,” He whispered, “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short, I know, I'm sorry, but it's been bothering me for WEEKS I tell you, and I just want to get it out here now.  
> Hopefully the next chapter won't take so long.   
> Come and hassle me over at pinkbomberjacket.tumblr.com, I'm always eager to hear your opinions/draw fanart for you all. :)


	6. Of Water and Wine

_The moon shone, heavy and pale, above the forest king’s palace, but it held no beauty for those watching it from beneath the tree line. Bolg’s troops clung to the shadows, watching the closed gates as a lone shadow picked its way towards them along the edge of the stream. The wounds on Bolg’s face still ached, a recent addition. His master had meant them as a punishment for his father’s failures and a warning not to follow in his his footsteps. Bolg had listened well. The scout was closer to them now, Bold able to make out the miserable creature’s features from this distance. Bolg knew what his report would be. He had seen the dwarves enter the palace himself._

_He would wait._

__  
***

Bilbo took a deep breath. He knew that he had to do it, deep in his bones, but his hands shook regardless of the necessity his actions held. The ring was cold beneath his fingers, and smooth, but touching it brought a shudder crawling up his spine like a spider. He tamped down hard on it, and squeezed his eyes shut. _Get a grip on yourself,_ he chided. The footsteps grew closer, the gentle clink of keys on a belt a warning that his window of opportunity was narrow. _Come on, Bilbo, come on now, it’s easy,_ he told himself, breathing harshly through his nose. The ring seemed to be whispering to him, mocking him. It knew how important it was in that moment, and Bilbo hated it for that.

He slid the ring onto his finger.

Bilbo held his breath as the warden’s shadow fell across his doorway. It paused, and Bilbo saw him tilt his head to the side.

 _Come on, please,_ Bilbo begged silently. His pulsed raced as the elf put his hand to his belt, lifting the keys from their place. Bilbo’s blade felt slippery and cold within his fingers, the blade still caked in dry ooze from the spiders. The metal door swung open on silent hinges, and the elf entered, turning his head quizzically from one side of the small room to the other. In a swift movement, Bilbo stood upon his bed and from his increased height, brought down the hilt of his sword upon the elf’s head as hard as he could. The graceful creature crumpled like a house of cards, his robes silencing the sound of his fall. Bilbo froze momentarily in shock; he had not expected to be that simple.

“Yes,” he hissed out in quick celebration, and jumped down from his perch to pull the elf further into the cell. He was completely out cold, Bilbo found as he rolled the sorry sod over onto his back, and lighter than he had expected. Compared with the brute power of the dwarves, Bilbo found the elf oddly delicate in his unconscious state. With nothing else at his disposal, Bilbo unwound one of his bandages, pocketing the clasp without a second thought, and made quick work of trussing the elf up like a chicken. He tore a small strip of it from the end and wrapped it around the elf’s mouth for good measure. He didn’t know how long he would be out for, or who may come looking, and it may buy them some vital time for their escape.

“Sorry, old chap,” Bilbo murmured smugly to the elf, grinning as he patted the slumped elf once on the cheek, and turned to leave his cell.

The keys were still hanging in the door, waiting faithfully for their master, and Bilbo quickly locked it behind him before turning to Thorin’s door. The keys rattled as he tried one after the other in the lock, and Bilbo heard Thorin stirring inside.

“Who’s there?” Thorin called, his voice heavy with sleep.

“Who do you think?” Bilbo quipped sarcastically. He heard the thud of dwarven shoes upon the stone floor as the key finally bit inside the lock, turning smoothly. He pushed the door open and Thorin was out with him, eyes scanning for him with a certain level of confusion.

“Down here,” Bilbo sighed, and Thorin’s eyes locked on the general area of Bilbo’s left ear.

“Master Burglar, your skills certainly precede you,” Thorin smiled, and Bilbo rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re not out of the woods yet, you know,” Bilbo replied. His pressed the keys to Thorin’s chest, startling the dwarf, but he caught them before they fell to the floor.

“Unlock the rest of them, I’m going to try and figure out the way out,” Bilbo told him, and Thorin nodded. He needn’t be told twice, and Bilbo waited a moment as Thorin hurried off before making his way over to the warden’s watch room. Bilbo breathed a sigh of relief at what he found in there; it seemed that not only had that elf been on lone duty that evening, but none of the elves had felt the desire to squirrel away their weapons. Orcrist stood in one corner, sheathed, and surrounded by a host of other familiar weapons.

“Oh, Kili _will_ be pleased,” Bilbo whispered gleefully to himself as he spotted the dwarfling’s bow and quiver amongst it all. He ventured out the other side of the room in time to spot two elves, thoroughly drunk and swaying on their feet as they tottered off down the vaulted hallway.

“The king wants us to send those barrels down to Laketown,” one slurred to the other.

“Bluh,” The other elf said eloquently, wine glass dangling precariously in his hand. “Do we have to do that tonight, of all nights? Really?”

“It’s that or the temper of the king, Meludir,” The first one said sagely. Meludir hung his head.

“But there are too many stairs to the cellars, Eredhon…”

“Now, now,” Eredhon coaxed, with a hand on the other elf's back, “it’s just along here, not too far at all... And I’ll make it worth your while…”

“Oh will you now?” 

Meludir downright _giggled_ as they disappeared around a corner wrapped in each other’s arms, and although Bilbo was slightly traumatized by that encounter, he was also struck by divine inspiration. He hurried back to find Thorin unlocking the very last door, and Dori stepping out to stand with the others. Bilbo whistled to get their attention, but all that happened was the dwarves jumped into a laughable approximation of a battle formation, eyes wide and snarls at the ready. Bilbo sighed.

“Over here!” He called, waving his hand before realizing how useless that was while invisible. He yanked the ring from his finger, and several of the dwarves flinched at his sudden appearance.

“Mister Baggins!” Ori called happily, and was quickly hushed by several others.

“Follow me!” Bilbo called to them. “I’ve got a plan!” He turned back to the warden’s room, confident that they would follow him. “Quietly!” he hissed over his shoulder as they clumped all too brashly across the stone floors.

There were audible gasps of joy as they spotted their weapons, dashing forward to reclaim them. Thorin drew his sword partly, and a small smile slid across his features before he turned to Bilbo, who was waiting patiently at the door.

“What is your plan, Bilbo?” He asked. Bilbo cleared his throat, thinking momentarily upon the two elves he saw passing earlier, and hoped against hope that they were as, well, _distracted_ by each other as they had been before.

“There’s a cellar nearby to here,” Bilbo told him quickly. “I heard two elves talking, they said that there was an alternative exit from the palace down there. They send the wine barrels down it.”

“And you’re’ absolutely certain?” Thorin asked him, but it wasn’t accusatory and it wasn’t a lack of trust, Bilbo could sense that. He took a deep breath.

“I can’t think of anything else we can do, short of storming the front gates,” Bilbo admitted, “and even then we wouldn’t get very far.” Thorin nodded.

“Lead the way,” he said, and Bilbo shot him a thankful smile. Thorin cleared his throat, drawing the company’s eyes, and with a quick hand gesture from his eyes to Bilbo, everyone turned their attention to him. Bilbo raised a finger to his lips, and they nodded at him. He slipped the ring on before peering around the corner of the door. The hallway was empty, but he padded on his bare feet into the middle of it just in case.

“It’s clear, everyone follow me to the left!” He bustled along the corridor, Nori and Fili at his heels, and Bilbo looked through all of the doorways on their right for a descending staircase. He muttered the entire time he did so.

“Not this one, not this one…. Oh! This must be it,” he said, and tugged on Fili’s tunic to show him the direction. He gave an unwarrior-like squeak of surprise, but the rest of them followed suit quickly enough.

“Down here, but stay quiet! I don’t know if anyone is still down here,” he called quietly back to them. Indeed, he didn’t even know if the barrels that made up an essential part of his hasty plan would still be there, or if the two elves had been hasty in their procrastination efforts and done the job already. Peering into one of the alcoves of from the sides of the staircase, he stifled a groan to discover that no, they were indeed still distracting each other from the king’s orders, rather _noisily_ , in fact, and against a large stack of wine barrels. He turned back, whipping off his ring just in time to stop Nori from walking straight into him. The rest of the dwarves clogged up the space behind them quickly, everyone trying to peer over the other and figure out what was going on.

“There’s two elves, _in there_ ,” Bilbo whispered to them, pointing to the alcove, “But they’re rather _busy_ with each other at the moment, so we’ve all got to walk past _super quietly,_ alright?” There was a series of nods, and Bilbo went first, with ring on his finger. He pulled it off again on the other side, and indicated for someone to follow on. They came past by themselves or in pairs, some taking a chance to peer curiously at the elves inside. Looks of disgust crossed their faces, and Dori wrapped his hands over Ori’s eyes as they crossed the doorway. Dwalin was distinctly ruffled.

“Elves are such disgusting creatures,” he grumbled to Bilbo as they continued alonf the corridor. Bilbo groused a little bit, feeling a small twinge of defensiveness for the elf boys. However, Dwalin continued. “What sort of unromantic fool beds their loved one in a wine cellar? Downright filthy, that is, Mister Baggins.” He looked to Bilbo for his opinion, and Bilbo couldn’t quite explain to himself the relief at Dwalin’s words.

“I… Yes, indeed, someone may want to drink from those barrels later,” Bilbo offered, and Dwalin gave a small smile.

“Too right, my lad, now lead on,” he agreed, his rolling accent bouncing the quiet words through the corridor. It mattered not, however, because Bilbo was quick to discover that the only inhabitants of the central cellar were passed out together around a table. There was a neat stack of large barrels sitting next to a large lever, and Bilbo turned to the others and ushered them forward.

“Quickly, everyone, into the barrels! We have to go!” and although there was a pause, and a short exchange of confused looks, the dwarves did as he asked. He prepared himself for pulling the lever, bracing his hands against the wooden handle and glancing at Thorin, when someone hauled him bodily over their shoulders.

“I can get that for you, Mister Bilbo, wouldn’t’ want to leave you behind!” Bofur called warmly over Bilbo’s hissed protests, before he was shoved into a crate that Bilbo quickly discovered was _already bloody occupied_.

“Bofur!” Bilbo called out, raising his voice despite the risk of waking the elves, but Bofur merely grinned at him cheekily before kicking at the lever and diving for the closest barrel. Bilbo stifled a cry of fear as they slowly tipped upwards and then sidewards and they were _rolling down and into god knows where_ and exactly _who was squeezing him as tightly as they could to their chest as they fell?_

There was a splash, and icy mountain water seeped into what felt like the very depths of Bilbo’s skin. The barrel was tight, and lurched back and forth perilously as they were carried onwards by the current through utter darkness. A pale pinprick of light grew larger swiftly, as they were carried towards it, and in the disorientating chaos Bilbo spotted stalactites hanging from the ceiling above them. The caves opened up to the forest and Bilbo tried to peak at the other barrels as a horn was blown behind them. Over the tops of weapons and heads poking out of barrels, Bilbo caught sight of the palace, receding behind them, as the gates opened and elven soldiers poured out in pursuit. There was yelling in rapidfire elvish, and suddenly their barrels were bumping together painfully behind an iron gate. As elves approached swiftly on foot, and the pale sky grew red with the dawn, Bilbo could do little more than watch in horror as the first elves on their trail were cut down by a volley of Orcs, pouring from the treeline above without so much as a battle cry.

“Kili!” Thorin yelled, and oh, _hello barrel-partner_ , Bilbo thought rather inappropriately, “Get the gates to release! Everybody else wait here!”

From four barrels over, Kili gave a sharp nod, springing with bow and arrow in hand to find the rivergate’s release hatch. The orcs were moving closer to them, and a red-headed warrior dropped down onto the rivergate’s highest platform from a tree, tackling an Orc and sinking an arrow into his eye before kicking over the edge of the stone wall.

“You and your kin are not going anywhere!” She yelled at him as two more orcs threw themselves towards them. Kili ducked a blow to the head from a warhammer by a mere hairsbreadth, retaliating with a kick to the shins that sent the orc staggering back to regain its footing.

“With all due respect, elf, I don’t think you can make those decisions for us!” Kili returned, but any reply was cut short as yet more orcs poured onto the rivergate. Bilbo squeaked as a blade stopped right in front of his eyes, close enough that they had to cross in order to see it properly. Thorin grunted under the strain of holding it off with Orcrist in such a cramped and unwieldy place. Fili, however, was transfixed upon the battle above, watching wide-eyed from below. Bilbo could see him positively itching to join his brother above. Kili was struggling, that much was obvious, even with the help of the she-elf.

“Thorin,” Fili began, but the dwarf was busy deflecting a blade swung down at them from above. Bilbo watched on, helpless and trapped in his barrel, as a bloated, scarred orc far larger than the others stalked forward on the bridge. Kili was surrounded, back turned to this new addition to their foes, and the orc smiled.

 _“Thorin!”_ Fili yelled, and his uncle met his gaze.

“Go, Fili!” Thorin called, deflecting yet another clanging bow from above with his sword. The dwarf was out of his barrel faster than Gandalf’s fireworks, swords carving expertly through their opposition. His brother ducked again and again beneath killing blows, rolling out of their way and back to his feet, but he was tiring, and there was a shallow wound upon his shooting shoulder. He lifted his bow, however, and loosed a shot that felled an orc that was approaching from behind the redheaded elf. Her eyes widened in surprise as the body rolled to the ground at her side, but she nodded a quick thankyou to the dwarf before pulling her arrows from a black-blooded corpse and firing once again.

“Get out of the way, Kili!” Fili cried, and the younger of the two had the good sense to listen as his brother swung a blade through the necks of two orcs, placing himself directly in their leader’s path.

“Foolish Durin,” the orc said. “You do not know the darkness which you face.”

“That seems a bit presumptuous of you,” Fili returned, earning himself a jarring blow of metal that made his arms shake. “I don’t even know who you are.”

“Bolg, son of Azog, is not your greatest concern,” the orc’s voice grated heavily in his throat, “But I will certainly be your last.”

“I don’t think so,” Fili grunted, and in one swift movement, he let the full force of the orc’s swords draw him forward, stepping back in the same motion and spinning his dual blades in a graceful arc. There was a gurgling howl of rage as black blood spurted from the meat of Bolg’s neck, joined by the clanging drive of Fili’s second sword pushing the first only deeper into his flesh. He gurgled, blood drooling between his teeth.

“They will come for all of you,” he hissed between his teeth.

“Then let them come,” Fili said grimly, and the triumph on the dwarf’s face was the last thing Bolg saw before falling, lifeless, into the water. Kili pulled the lever, and the company let out whoops of joy as they poured out onto the waiting river, leaving the elves behind to skirmish with the remaining orc band. Fili and Kili dropped, grinning, into their barrels from the height of the rivergate, and Kili took a moment to turn in his barrel and blow an exaggerated kiss to the elf woman while his brother rolled his eyes. Bilbo laughed in hysterical relief; his plan, crazy and half-baked and positively _sleep deprived_ as it was, had managed to get them out of there intact and alive.

“Is anybody injured?” Thorin called above the crashing of the river. A chorus of negatives came back to him.

“Just a scratch from an orc blade on my shoulder, nothing major,” Kili grinned, and his brother teased him from across the river about bruises and scrapes long since past.

Despite the many virtues and divine luck that had been seemingly bestowed upon them today, the barrels weren’t any less barrels, and the ride was a rough and cramped one to say the least. Doubly so when one took into account Bilbo’s rather large fellow occupant and his stupid, great big metal sword. Bilbo tired of trying to keep to his own cramped side of the barrel, and on a particularly sharp bump, he simply allowed himself to fall face-first into Thorin’s chest and not move.

“Are you quite alright there?” Thorin asked him, voice rumbling in amusement.

“Never better,” Bilbo replied, and he felt Thorin laughing to himself.

“Did you sleep at all last night, or were you hatching plans?”

“I don’t think you can really reprimand your criminal mastermind for not sleeping in light of our recent _escapade_ , Thorin,” he pointed out.

“Wasn’t reprimanding,” the dwarf placated, “only going to suggest that you try and sleep a little. It’s bumpy now, but I daresay that barrels are our fastest mode of transport at present.”

“That is probably the smartest thing you’ve said all day,” Bilbo said, “but I doubt I could ever sleep in this wooden death trap.”

“If you say so, Mister Baggins,” Thorin complied.  
He refrained from laughter when Bilbo began to snore gently against his chest only minutes later, in spite of the lumps and bumps and splashes of water, and only stroked the hobbit’s tousled hair a little bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Makes up for short chapter with yet another short chapter, but a QUICKLY WRITTEN, UNBETA'D PUBLISHED ONE.*
> 
> Seriously, it's unbeta'd, please point out to me if something is horribly wrong or doesn't make sense and I will corect it when it is not 1am. 
> 
> Thanks everybody!


	7. Of Banks and Bards

_Broken corpses littered the cracked and blackened stone of the ruins. Black blood wound slowly through the cracks of the paved floor, steeping its very foundations in corruption. They were weak, and unworthy, and their screams had only fuelled the dark fire of his wrath. He had saved the messenger until last, left him trembling and spattered with the gore of his fellow orcs on the very centre stone of the old parapet. Dark power trembled beneath his fingers, but he stayed his hand. He had not felt any love for Azog’s line, his acceptance extending as far as his use for them. He need not expend energy on such matters as petty vengeance when he had so much more to deal with. He could sense foreign powers approaching, familiar powers. His time of secrecy was running out._

_”I am tired of promoting the unworthy,” he said, and the orc cowered before him. “Take an army. Take everything that these dwarves hold dear from them. And pray that should you fail, you die on that battlefield.” The orc nodded and jerkily swayed to his feet, scurrying away with sickening cowardice. It made his skin crawl with disgust._

_The necromancer flicked the bodies from the parapet with a stray flick of power, and they echoed into the depths of the chasm below. He had better things to do than waste his resources on a troupe of dwarves and their lonesome dragon gold._

__  
***

Bofur had known what he was getting into when he signed that contract. Truly, he had; he read it over thoroughly, _twice_ , picking apart the ins and outs with his brother and cousin on either side of him. It had taken them many hours to pore over it all together, way into the night until the candles they burnt were mere stubs and the stony features of their prospective leader were cast into sharp relief from across the wooden surface of the table. By Mahal, he had even added some of the compensation clauses himself! Bofur had been prepared for hunger and walking and loss of property, for fire and destruction and even death.

He hadn’t signed up for barrels though.

By the time someone’s hand gripped the lip of his barrel and tipped him out into the shallows, Bofur was convinced he had died a thousand times over. His mind was fogged with exhaustion and every part of his body felt battered and rubbed raw. He waded and crawled through the icy water, knees aching with each press of river pebbles to his tenderised skin. Through the shivers and shaking, the water and the whines of his weary companions, Bofur simply couldn’t shake the thought that this was somehow all a grand punishment, some hilarious joke designed by the gods. _Serves me right for thinking that_ Thorin _would be able to lead us over a bloody_ bridge _, let alone across Middle Earth and into the arms of a waiting dragon,_ Bofur groused internally.

He joined Ori and Gloin on the bank of the river, collapsing with a god-almighty groan of relief. Gloin was face down on the water-etched stone, small bursts of strange, tired laughter escaping through his beard, and Ori was clutching in his woollen-clad fingers the edges of his sodden journal, shivering and lip wobbling like a child with a scraped knee. _He probably does have a scraped knee, poor thing,_ Bofur thought faintly. Bofur turned his head at the sound of splashing and low, gruff voices. Dwalin was standing in the shallows tipping more exhausted dwarves from their barrels and then redirecting the empty cargo towards Dori, who was fencing them in against the bank, where the flow of the river was minimal and the current was little more than an eddying nudge. Bofur saw the distinctive, if sodden, braids of Nori as he was unceremoniously poured from his barrel like an angry tomcat. Without particular thought as to his reasons why, Bofur pulled himself to his feet, stumbling back into the water to help the other dwarf. _It’s the least I can do, really,_ Bofur reasoned with himself as he moved to help Nori from the water. Bofur caught the other dwarf in his exhausted arms as he collapsed, having dredged his way over as best as he could. He cursed like a sailor as he fell, but he smiled impishly in thanks up at Bofur as he hoisted him to his feet by his armpits. Bofur imagined that they would find an improbable number of elven goods on his person over the next few days, for even with his sodden clothes, the dwarf simply shouldn’t have been as heavy as he was.

By the time he’d sat Nori down on the riverbank and gently ran his hands across the dwarf’s arms, back, neck and chest ( _it’s just to check that he isn’t injured_ , Bofur justified to himself as Nori wiggled his braided eyebrows at him, _wouldn’t want to have someone ignoring their wounds for the sake of the company_ ) the very last of the barrels had arrived in their inlet. The sound of excited squawking drew Bofur’s attention and he craned his neck to watch as Fili tipped out of his barrel. He floundered for a moment, only to turn in the chilly waters and begin wading towards his brother as fast as he possibly could, calling and crowing and making as much noise as he possibly could. Kili was still quite a few metres out, but he returned Fili’s cries in full. He rocked his barrel hard enough to capsize, spraying water in a wide arc as he broke the surface. They stumbled and splashed towards each other on frantic and shaky feet in their haste, slamming into each other in a full body embrace. Their voices grew hysterical, covering a multitude of silent reassurances with their straining joy. Hands scrabbled in each other’s sodden hair for a hold, dragging their foreheads together, and they both pretended that they hadn’t been utterly petrified for each other. Bofur smiled quietly to himself and turned away as they clung to each other, their sobbing laughter an intimate moment of mutual relief.

Aye, he knew that feeling well enough.

***

Thorin’s blade dragged against the riverbed, the dull scraping lost in the streams steady burbling as he helped Bilbo reach the bank. The hobbit, it seemed, was far from fond of water, and had not taken very well to Dwalin’s unceremonious tipping of their tightly packed barrel. He had scrabbled at the water, wide-eyed and gasping, when Thorin had braced him against his side. The hobbit had gratefully leant into him, and the relief he felt as they stepped onto dry land was practically tangible. Thorin’s knees ached beneath him, threatening to buckle at any moment, and his head was heavy and clouded with exhaustion. Everything was bruised and all he wanted to do was lie down and sleep for a week, but the rest of his company were scattered around upon the banks, looking equally as sodden and tired and lost as he felt, and now was simply not the time to look after himself. He sat Bilbo down gently next to Ori to muffled words of gratitude. Sitting him down, he looked truly and utterly spent, capable of little more than holding himself upright and staring absently at the rocks behind Thorin. The adrenalin had well and truly worn off, for everybody it seemed, and Thorin was going to have to do something about it.

“Bilbo,” Thorin said, and the hobbit lifted his head wearily. Thorin crouched down, his knees giving a groan of protest, and placed a hand on the hobbit’s shoulder.

“You alright?” he asked, and Bilbo blinked slowly, nodding as he did so.

“Yes, yes, I’ll be fine,” he mumbled. He was shivering underneath Thorin’s hand, but he mustered a small smile. “Just… Give me a few moments.”

He stared at the hobbit intently. He definitely looked as exhausted as everyone else, Thorin noted. He had known that the lack of regular meal breaks was taking its toll upon the small, pampered creature, but it wasn’t until he was sitting there upon the riverbank, the sounds of the others quietly licking their own wounds somewhere nearby, that he truly noticed it. Bilbo’s wrist bones were showing now, jutting softly but definitively against his skin as he tugged his wet clothes closer around himself. His usually soft tummy had receded to a hollow memory of itself, and his legs, tired as they are, had carried him further than Thorin could ever have imagined. When he looked up at Thorin again, it was with a different light behind his eyes than the persnickety creature he had met months ago in the Shire, defiance and loyalty shining through where there had been barely hidden indignance and mistrust.

“Thorin,” he said, his serious little face full of earnestness, “check on the others. I’m not going anywhere.”

And with those words Thorin came to the twin realizations that _no, he really wasn’t,_ and, with a sickening jolt, _I have to make sure that he never, ever wants to_. They clicked into place quietly inside of him, like the missing shards in a great towering chandelier, and a profound moment of calm swept over him.

He shook it off hastily. There simply wasn’t time to dwell on such things, and as such Thorin nodded, standing, and turned to the others. Some were watching him, others his nephews as they continued to trek towards the bank, all of them tired and battered and bleary eyed.

“Is everyone alright?” he asked, his voice croaking as he raised it for all to hear. There was a chorus of tired _aye_ s and _we’ll fight on_ s, and Thorin nodded, somewhat reassured. _If they can still talk, they can still walk,_ he thought. _And with a dirty great pack of elves on our tails, we’ll have to._ He looked down as the hobbit sighed, head dipping against Ori’s shoulder. _But perhaps not right away._

His nephews reached the bank, arms still bound around each other as they navigated the cluster of wet rocks where the rest of their company had gathered. Thorin turned to watch them, face impassive and stony as they approached, and stifled the brief flinch of amusement as they tripped to a halt under his gaze. Their faces sobered immediately under his stare, something that Thorin had thought they had almost grown out of by now, but Fili extricated himself from his brother’s grasp. His movements were subtle but unmistakeable as he stepped in front of his brother, eyes filled with the emotions that his defiantly resolute face refused to betray.

“Uncle,” He began, but Thorin raised a hand. The very river seemed to fall silent as Fili waited.

“Don’t,” Thorin said. Fili’s eyes widened slightly, and Thorin did not miss the way his hand twitched at his side. Thorin held his gaze.

“What you did- taking on that orc for your brother- was foolhardy and rash and very nearly got the both of you killed.” He paused, allowing his words a moment to sink in. Kili was not half as good at schooling his emotions as his brother was, and he looked as though he had half a mind to speak up.

“And we are never telling your mother about this, ever,” he finished, cracking a small smile, and there was a slight pause before Fili’s entire body relaxed. He grinned, throwing himself into Thorin’s waiting arms. He gave a small keening sound of relief as Thorin held him close, pulling his head into Thorin’s shoulder as though he were a small child once again. Kili was watching tentatively from the side, but Thorin gave him a _what are you doing this also applies to you_ look and the young dwarf abandoned any indecision he was feeling to crowd in as well.

“We did it, uncle,” Fili murmured into Thorin’s hair, where he had burrowed his face. “The line of Azog is gone. Durin’s line shall endure.” The words were hushed, and Thorin stiffened. The implications of them hit him like a battle-axe, his throat closing up as an old tormenter inside his chest slipped away as easily as a ghost.

“It shall indeed,” Thorin murmured back, and he hoped that his nephews didn’t notice the slightly choked sound of his voice. His nephews, his heirs. Finishing the work that was never theirs, lifting the burdens they were never meant to carry.

“I am so proud of you,” he whispered, before he could think to stop himself. The twin noises of appreciation he heard from each shoulder, and the extra squeeze of his already iron-gripped middle let him know that yes, they definitely heard that one.

Fili was the first to pull away, sliding his fingers into his belt as he cleared his throat.

“You’re getting sentimental in your old age I fear, uncle,”  
Kili joked as he too stepped away, and Fili punched him in the shoulder without looking at him. Kili whined.

“Hey! That’s my _wounded_ shoulder!” he put on a very convincing look of indignance, and Thorin turned away as Fili told him it could definitely be worse.

“We need to start moving,” Thorin addressed them all, ignoring the spread of sappy and amused expressions across his companions. The sun was getting ever higher in the sky, the day warming up, and their clothes beginning to dry.

“Where do you suppose we go?” Ori asked, hiding a sneeze in one of his knitted gloves.

“We follow the river, see if we can find a ferryman willing to get us to Laketown.”

“That will take you weeks, if you manage to shake the elves following you,” The sound of an unfamiliar voice and the stretch of a bowstring had everyone turning to the outcrop a few feet above them. A dark-haired man stood, arrow notched and aimed steadily at Thorin’s chest. The first streaks of grey weaved through his messy curls, and his mouth was set in a grim line across his sharp, stubbled features.

“Who are you, and what is your business coming to Laketown?”

Thorin did not allow the man so much as a blink of surprise.

“I suppose it is pointless telling you that you are outnumbered?” Thorin said, voice even and conversational. The sound of fifteen weapons being drawn and pointed at the stranger made Thorin’s mouth quirk up in a slight smile. The man paused.

“Ah,” He said eloquently.

***

The man’s manners did not improve once he lowered his weapon.  
Dori spotted his barge a short way downstream, and the man identified himself, with a great long-suffering eyeroll to combat the elf-king’s, as Bard. Dwalin was ready to smack him over the head and commandeer his boat, saying so in just about as many words, but the man had simply laughed at them.

“You wouldn’t make it past the edge of the shore before you sunk yourself,” he told them. “And besides. Laketown has changed, my _friends._ ”

Bilbo himself was rather impressed with the man’s ability to make the word _friends_ sound like an insult and a threat at the same time. Dwalin remained unconvinced, and Nori took his side, much to the surprise of everyone (including Dwalin). But with some hushed and heated discussion, Balin and Thorin decided it would be best if they believed the bargeman, rude as he was, and strike as amiable a deal as they could manage. Bilbo left them to it, choosing instead to sit and try to warm himself upon the rocks. He did not go too far, choosing to stay close enough to watch over the dwarves as they milled about, trying to find some order in their hastily-grabbed belongings, talking amongst one another, or helping to move the empty barrels towards the barge. The ring sat heavily in his pocket, like a pebble at the bottom of a lake, and he tried not to think too hard about its queer powers upon him. The customary weariness it inflicted upon him had lifted somewhat since the arrival of their unexpected guest, and with the sunlight piercing through his thin clothing he was beginning to feel a little closer to alive once again. With the autumn birds cooing tentatively in the trees above, he found his mind wandering back to the Shire, and his gardens in their neat and tidy beds. He was trying his best not to think too wistfully about the smell of bacon when Thorin eased himself down to sit next to him. Bilbo gave him a brief hum of acknowledgement and closed his eyes, turning his face towards the sunshine like a housecat.

“The bargeman has agreed to take us into Laketown,” Thorin offered without prompting. Bilbo hummed again.

“Do you think we can trust him?” Thorin prodded. Bilbo let the breath in his lungs escape slowly through his nose, shoulders dropping as it did so.

“I don’t see why not,” he replied. “But I also don’t see that we have a choice. We have not exactly earned ourselves allies in that Mirkwood lot, now have we?”

“Hm.” They sat in silence for a moment, appreciating little more than the warmth of the sun and each other’s company. Bilbo started at the touch of a calloused thumb against his wrist.

“What happened to your bandage?” Thorin asked, staring down at Bilbo’s hand in his own. The drag of Thorin’s rough finger against his skin was thoroughly distracting, and Bilbo cleared his throat.

“I, uh, I had to use it to tie up the prison warden. Couldn’t be helped, unfortunately.” He brightened suddenly, and reached a hand into one of his pockets.  
“I did manage to keep the clasp that Master Balin gave me, though,” he said as he retrieved it. He held it up to show Thorin, taking in the brief twitch of surprise in Thorin’s eyebrows as he looked down upon it. Bilbo waited for a response, but the dwarf remained silent for what felt like a long time. Bilbo was about to open his mouth, embarrassed, when Thorin reached up suddenly and began tugging at his hair. Bilbo could feel his fingers moving quickly and surely against his scalp, and blood rushed to the tips of his ears as the dwarf brushed briefly against them.

“Uh,” Bilbo sputtered eloquently, “What- I mean, Thorin, what are you..?” But the dwarf said nothing, and Bilbo took that as his cue to simply remain silent until the dwarf was finished with whatever he was doing. He took the clasp from Bilbo’s hand and pinched it between his teeth, opening the little latch and, holding onto what felt like half of Bilbo’s head of hair, he slipped it gently into place. It made a sharp little _click_ as the latch fell into place. The dwarf relinquished Bilbo’s hair, leaning back. Bilbo fought the urge to lean into the place where the touch had been, bringing a hand up to trace Thorin’s handiwork. He felt the small, even ridges of a braid curling softly around the shape of his ear, the clasp bumping gently against the back of his earlobe.

“I… Thank you,” Bilbo said finally. Thorin was watching him carefully, piercing eyes glancing back and forth between his hair and his face. With lack of a better response, Bilbo gave a small laugh.

“Isn’t… Isn’t it a bit much, though?” He asked. The barely concealed flash of mortification in Thorin’s eyes had Bilbo backtracking quickly. “I mean, I’ve never really worn a braid in my hair before, I always thought it was a bit short for that…”

“Not at all,” Thorin answered, his voice a little stilted to Bilbo’s ears. “It’s very subtle, the rest of your curls almost completely cover it. And this way, there’s no chance of losing that… That clasp.” Bilbo’s face broke out in a smile.

“Oh, of course!” Bilbo said. “How very clever of you, Thorin! I’ll definitely keep it in place then. It must be the sign of a great friend, he who braids another’s hair.” He gave Thorin’s shoulder a brief pat of gratitude, and stood up to go and help the others. 

“Yes,” Thorin murmured to no one in particular, “the very best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeesh. Sorry for the wait guys. *dodges tomatoes* the next one should be coming sooner, I'm going to try and get as much of it out of the way as possible before the next semester of uni starts. As y'all know, I'm on tumblr, and I post art and stuff for the hobbit every now and then, but my url is no longer pinkbomberjacket, and is now indefinitelyindia. Come find me and yell at me for a new chapter? 
> 
> Also feel free to yell at me in the comments, love or hate it doesn't matter, you know how I do love those. :)


	8. Of Masters and Men

“Try and keep a low profile, please,” Bard said. His voice was barely a scrape above a murmur, but in the eerie quiet of the waters and the fog, it was startlingly loud to Bilbo’s ears. Silent resignation seemed to roll off the man in waves from where he stood at the helm, his sheer stubbornness curdling the mist that pressed upon their small boat. The corner of his mouth twitched.

“The master’s folk do not take kindly to strangers.”

Thorin, standing still and stoic against the railing, gave him a cursory nod and turned towards the mists once more. Bilbo wondered, vaguely, whether he was trying to spot something familiar amongst the cloying fog, searching for some distant memory of his past, and for everything that he had lost in it. His eyes listlessly scanned the expansive grey, jaw set and the heavy furs of his coat pulled tight around him. Bilbo shivered; there was something about the fog that seeped into his very bones, chasing away every last breath of warmth he had gained in the morning sun. He huddled further into the blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders. It had been passed to him silently by Thorin as the little boat set forth upon the water.

“You’ll need it more than I will, Mister Baggins,” Thorin had said in passing, eyes flicking across him once in a brief moment of concern, “you’re turning to skin and bone.”

There was a lurch and a creak in the sails as Bard spun the wheel sharply; in front of him, Dwalin and Gloin stiffened, hands twitching unmistakably for their weapons, but they were quick enough to realize that no mutiny was afoot. Dark shapes rose suddenly from the waters, the ruins of an old city fading in and out of view like the spectres of a brighter time. They weaved their way through waterlogged archways and crumbling parapets, their captain navigating out of their way before they even became visible.

“I can see why he thought we’d have sunk,” Kili whispered to his brother, far too loudly than he most likely realized, and there was a small chorus of amused huffs as Fili boxed him around the ears with a gloved hand.

“Harbouring elven fugitives,” the boatman muttered to himself, “ Never thought I’d see the day.”

“We are not fugitives!” Nori piped up, his tone halfway between petulant and indignant.

“Oh, really?” Bard replied, eyebrows raised and face considerably unimpressed. “Then what exactly are you?”

”We are as Balin said.” Thorin intervened.   
“Merchants? Forgive me, but that seems rather unlikely, considering your general lack of caravan and tradable goods. You shan’t find anything to trade in Laketown, besides; the town’s wealth dried up long ago.”

“Our business is ours alone,” Thorin replied smoothly enough. “If there is nothing for us, then we shall resupply and move on.” His answer gave no room for more conversation.

Bard gave a huff, glancing warily between the dwarf and the wooden wheel between his fingers. Time passed in the eerie silence, and the sky darkened ever further.

“You must hide,” the boatman said finally, startling Bilbo out of his chill-induced stupor. Bard was grim, eyes fixed on his own gloved hands upon the helm. His eyes lifted, almost begrudgingly, to scan across them all.

_“Now,”_ he urged, eyes widening in their shadowed sockets. The effect was immediate, if rather slow. The dwarves lurched to their feet, and began peering around in confusion.

“But where are we to go?” Ori asked, his voice pitching slightly. But Bilbo understood what they had to do immediately.

“Into the barrels,” he said, glancing up to the approving eyes of Bard. “Everybody, back into the barrels.”

There was much grumbling, but they did as they had to, and there was a moment in which Bilbo and Thorin’s eyes met over the single barrel and they hesitated, but Thorin merely gave a nod, and they were both pressing in as quickly as they could. Yet more grumbling reached Bilbo’s ears as they were all equally dowsed in soggy, scaly fish. From their hiding place, he could hear the muffled gripes of the others, and the words “I’m going to kill him,” in what was certainly Dwalin’s voice reached Bilbo’s clever, pointed ears.

“Hush, all of you,” Bard hissed, and they fell into silence. Bilbo felt the slimy chill of the fish over his shoulders, but there was the unmistakable press of warmth along his side (all too much of his side, if Bilbo’s more proprietous side was having any say in the matter) that made his heart feel rather more present in his throat than was usual. He did his very best to focus not upon the large amount of dwarf squished in beside him and on the situation at hand as they made their way towards what were definitely lights in the dimness, blinking in a sickly yellow haze through the wintry fog. In the charged silence, Bilbo could hear the lapping of water against wood, and deep in the recesses of his cheeks he felt the first horrifying tingles of an impending sneeze.

_Oh no,_ he thought.

_Oh yes,_ something deep in his sinus cavities replied, and Bilbo had the briefest moment to think that well, at least he’s already covered in various forms of disgusting slime, what’s a little bit extra, before his eyes screwed shut and he attempted to contain the noise of his sneeze to the bare minimum.

The murmurs of conversation on deck ceased, and Bilbo felt Thorin freeze completely still against him. He cringed lower into the barrel, wishing that he could disappear without causing a commotion in the process.

“Are your fish sneezing then, barge man?” A snide, nasally voice said from somewhere to their right, and through the sticky, slick bodies of fish, Bilbo felt a roughened, warm hand grasp his own, and pull him suddenly up to stand.

“No, but we are,” Thorin said, shoulder pressed close to Bilbo’s. A man, who very closely resembled the offspring of an eel and a rat, jumped at their sudden appearance, eyes wide in surprise. Somewhere behind them Bilbo heard the distinctive and unmistakable sound of Bard sighing heavily and planting his face in the palm of his hand. He fought the urge to cringe at his barrel-mate as the dwarf soldiered on majestically, his hair no doubt laced with fish goo and the silvery sheen of loose scales. Bilbo felt cold sweat break across the palms of his hands as the two of them stared at the man, who was already recovering from his shock and calculating his next move like a spider that had just encountered a snake. Thorin spoke.

“We are travellers seeking rest and resources for our long journey, which is not yet over. We request that you take us to the leader of this town.“ The eel-rat man sniffed disdainfully and narrowed his eyes at them. He straightened his back a little higher in what was truly an appalling slouch as though hoping it may greaten his authority.

“What is your business here, then? What is your destination?” His tone was highly suspicious. Bilbo could not really blame him.

“They’re just merchants-” Bard began, but Thorin interjected.

“I am afraid that what we told you is not quite true,” Thorin said over the top of the man, and Bilbo heard yet another exasperated sigh come from the bargeman. They had drawn the attention of an ever-growing crowd, and Thorin raised his voice to address them.

“Our intentions are to continue forth to the Lonely Mountain, and to take back what was the rightful kingdom of our people from the curse that lives within it.” At this, the crowd surged with hushed murmurings. Their interrogator merely scoffed, however.

“What, two of you? A dwarf and… Whatever you are? What hope would you have?” There was a pause, and Bilbo didn’t even realise he was holding his breath until there was the sound of sliding fish and one by one each of the company emerged from their barrels. Expressions ranged from fearful defiance to absolutely murderous, and there were gasps from the crowd as they stood as resolutely and dignified as they could whilst surrounded by fish. Thorin’s chest puffed up again underneath the damp furs as he prepared to speak.

“Too long your people and mine have suffered under the tyrannical rule of the dragon; but no longer. Provide us with food and shelter, and we shall free you all from its scourge. This I swear upon the line of Durin!”

It took all of Bilbo’s effort not to roll his eyes whilst simultaneously holding back another sneeze, and he imagined that he would have looked rather odd at that moment if anyone had been paying him the slightest of mind. But instead, all eyes were upon Thorin, the crowd eating up his words hungrily. Thorin’s interrogator seemed to realize that his battle was lost, all the fight and with an oily smile, he dropped into a bow that tasted of thinly veiled sarcasm.

“Well… Well then, kind sir, if you and your band of merry dragonslayers would be so kind as to follow me, I would be _delighted_ to take you to the Master of our fair town.” His eyes turned hard as he looked at Bard, is smile turning from barely civil to triumphant. “And you too, Mister Bowman. I am sure the Master will be _fascinated_ by your tale.”

Thorin lifted Bilbo out of the barrel without asking, but Bilbo’s nose was running too much to pay any mind to that. He and Thorin passed the bargeman as they followed their interrogator-turned-guide, and Bilbo heard him mutter, “ _one thing, I requested one bloody thing_ ” before he was out of earshot and they were traipsing their way across uneven and rotting waterways to yet more of the unknown.

***

In light of not facing imminent death and dismemberment, Bilbo’s exhaustion sank low upon his shoulders with all of the weight and inconvenience of a stone troll. His eyes blurred in and out of focus, and he allowed himself to be buoyed along by the other dwarves, whose mere presence close around him prevented him from tripping too badly as they picked their way between the floating shanti cabins. Bifur gave him a funny look when Bilbo began to lean gently against him at the foot of the Master’s seat, the little clasp in his hair bumping against the dwarf’s cheek, but he slid an arm around Bilbo’s shoulders nonetheless.

The Master was equally as slimy as his underling, but it took very little coaxing from Thorin and Balin (if repeated mentioning of _gold, riches and its various derivatives_ could be considered coaxing) to draw an amiable reaction from him. A feast was brought forth from unknown depths of the Master’s rickety and rotting hall, and fires were lit, and it appeared as though the entire town had come to welcome them, or at least to have a good, long stare and enjoy some hard-sought food and ale. Bilbo would have almost been relieved by this outcome to the day. Almost. If it weren’t for the way Nori would shepherd Ori away from the larger groups of people and back towards the rest of the company, a hand firmly against the hilt of whatever he had hidden beneath his tunic, or the way that Bofur’s smile never reached his eyes, and Thorin had grown still in the way that Bilbo knew did not mean restfulness. Orcrist was slung reassuringly across his back, ever present, ever ready.

Bilbo’s eyes itched in the smoke of the cooking fires, reminding him all too suddenly of an entirely different fire filled with the sound of unearthly howls and the smell of burning pine needles. His breath caught in his throat, and he pressed the sleeve of his shirt to his streaming nose as he wound his way out into the frigid night air. Eyes followed him, but he steadfastly ignored them until he was sitting on the snow and filth-covered steps of the master’s hall. He sucked in a deep, steadying breath. His eyes were clouded, but he blinked that away, until all that remained were his slowing heartbeats, and the symptoms of his annoying new cold. With numbing fingers he pulled his clothes closer around himself.

Clouds scudded across the moonlit sky mirrored imperfectly in the ripples of the black canals as Bilbo stared out across the way. The press of many bodies lay behind him, the chaos and festivity of the hall left muted only a few steps away, and yet feeling like an entirely different world altogether. The steps were empty, save for a gently snuffling pug dog searching for scraps, and Bilbo himself. He ruminated as he gazed into the depths of the water, his thoughts skimming vaguely without forming any sort of attachment, about all that had happened, and all that would, through the haze of sickness and utter exhaustion. He barely even registered when Thorin lowered himself down heavily next to him, sliding the sheath of Orcrist from his back as he sat. The dwarf sighed deeply out into the night air, creating an impressive stream of mist. Bilbo did not acknowledge his presence. Silently, he drew his pipe out of his coat, and set about packing it full of pipeweed that would surely only taste of river water and fish after all it had been through. He lit it carefully, waving out the matchstick in his hand only once it was happily puffing away in his hand, and pursed it between his teeth.

“This isn’t exactly what that bargeman had in mind for us,” Thorin said eventually, following Bilbo’s line of sight out into the darkness. Bilbo did not waver in his exhausted reverie, instead letting Thorin’s words wash gently over him in time with the lapping of the waves.

“For some reason, I feel that he does not like us very much,” Thorin noted, matter-of-fact, eyes crinkling with mirth at the small hiccup of laughter he drew out of the hobbit.

“They’re not the friendliest of sorts, these Lake people,” Bilbo admitted, his voice rougher than he thought it would sound. Thorin huffed.

“Aye, time and dragonfire have not been kind to them. It is not the place that I remember it once being. But they have not thrown us into cells yet, so they are certainly friendlier than most.” He looked to Bilbo with a slight crinkle on each side of his eyes.

Bilbo blinked slowly a small smile still in place as he let his eyes close for a moment. He thought briefly about the notion of sleeping, and in particular, being able to do so without fear. He could not remember the last time he actually laid down with the express purpose of seeking rest; he supposed, vaguely, that it did not matter, if all of the company was safe for at least the moment.

“You’re shaking,” Thorin observed, a small frown crossing his face. Bilbo could not protest when Thorin shifted next to him, swinging his heavy fur coat off from his own shoulders and around Bilbo’s. It was still warm from Thorin’s body and Bilbo tipped his head forward, burying himself further into the thick fur of the collar. He wondered briefly whether he could get away with surreptitiously wiping his nose against the fur. A stray thought caught against the edges of his exhausted mind and he began to laugh, low and unexpected. It was more of a wheeze in his chest than anything, but he smiled into the coat nonetheless, the thought giving him a strange sense of both homesickness and happiness.

“What is it?” Thorin asked him. Bilbo wheezed a little bit harder for a moment, coughing slightly as he struggled to find the words. Thorin, he could not help but notice, looked very slightly alarmed, but waited for him to stop.

“You know,” Bilbo said eventually, eyes watering, “I think it might be my birthday today.”

Thorin watched him for a moment, pipe clasped between his teeth, then looked out across the dark waters. A deep chuckle emerged from a rare, secret smile that Bilbo could not see over the coat’s fur, but he gratefully accepted the arm around his shoulder that pulled him close and carried him off into his first peaceful night of sleep in a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello from the other siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide


	9. Out of the Shadows (and then Straight Back in Again)

The Master of Laketown was most obliging in his hospitality, providing their exhausted party with food supplies enough to survive a few weeks journey across the desolate landscape. Bilbo discovered rather quickly that the people of Laketown were a wary bunch, full of sideways looks and murmured conversations, but they were never outright rude. Clearly Thorin’s grand speech had given them all a renewed glimmer of hope amongst all of the cold and the filth of their day to day lives. It was only the Boatman who remained unhappy with their presence, but even that didn’t seem to quite be the problem. Bilbo had the vaguest notion that perhaps their one-time smuggler was less concerned with their presence so much as their dangerous intentions for the future.

They were given lodgings within the ramshackle town, but Thorin was quick to remind them that they could not stay for very long, as Durin’s day did fast approach. Their entire cause would be lost if they were not upon the mountain in time to find the secret passageway. All they had strived for, all they had survived, would be for naught.

Over the two days that they stayed in the town, the mountain seemed to loom forebodingly over Bilbo alone, its shadow following him, pressing down upon him wherever he went and whatever he did. There was not a single moment when its craggy, gloomy presence didn’t weigh upon his mind, and despite the abundance of warmth and food at his disposal, he found himself feeling restless and waking in a prickly sweat beneath his coarse bedsheets. The only thing that kept him from going absolutely stir-crazy during their stay was the gentle encouragement of the company, their easy belief in his abilities that never required an actual statement of any kind, just a solid hand to clasp his shoulder or to fluff up his hair like he was but a wee shireling once again.

They left with little pomp and circumstance on the morning of the third day, Fili and Kili sitting on each side of him in the little boats they had been lent by the townsfolk. They cruised silently across the chilly waters, a Laketown guide in each of the two gondola-like boats to ensure their property’s return once the dwarves disembarked upon the eerie shores closest to the mountain.

There was no birdsong upon the shore, Bilbo realized idly as they watched the boats swiftly depart. The boatmen never looked back as their ships cut silently through the fogs that lapped across the waters. They were gone within moments, enveloped in the mists as swiftly as if they had stepped behind two falling curtains. The pregnant silence drew out longer than Bilbo would have thought it could, given the company that he kept, and yet it felt wrong to break it. As the sun began to shine weakly through the dreary cover, it truly felt as if the whole world lay in waiting for something.

“We must be moving,” Thorin finally said, eyes shifting between each of them. With those words, the party seemed to lurch to life, picking up their things and hefting packs over shoulders with a loudness that was uncomfortable.

The sun rose and fell and the shroud across the landscape failed to lift, and so too did the company’s spirits. Bilbo chose to situate himself near Ori and Bofur in the snaking line they had formed naturally as they followed their leader, seeking out warmth of personality when the day itself seemed to provide none of its own. Thorin, farther ahead and closely followed by Balin an Dwalin, appeared to possess a kind of grim animation, a set to his step that drew him with certainty through the landmark-less terrain. Bilbo had yet to figure out the means by which he could steal treasure from a dragon and live to tell the tale, but with little else to occupy it, his mind was ceaselessly churning over the possibilities. Perhaps he could get by with his quick wits, perhaps his light feet will be enough; perhaps he can talk his way out of becoming an immediate snack, should the dragon be the sporting kind, or perhaps he could even challenge it to a battle of wits….

He was still considering this little issue of his when they finally settled down for a quick rest and a bite to eat. He slumped down next to Ori, lost for the most part inside his own mind, and began sifting through his newly acquired rations for something to fill his persistently grumbling stomach. It seemed as though even the few days of relative comfort in Laketown had taken a toll upon his ability to suppress such urges, pulling more from the bag then perhaps he ought to. _Doesn’t really matter how much I eat now,_ he supposed darkly, _if this endeavor goes sideways, I may not even need to keep enough rations for a round trip._

The disquieting thought left the bread tasting ashy in his mouth.

“Bilbo?” A voice drew him from his reverie. It was Ori, a small, innocent frown creasing his brow, and he appeared to be squinting at something slightly to the side of Bilbo’s eyes.

“What’s that in your hair?”

Bilbo raised a hand to touch the side of his head, his gloved fingers bumping suddenly against the weight of the dwarven clasp. He’d practically forgotten it was there, so used to its little motions he was now. Ori’s eyes widened as he held it out slightly, exposing the fine detailwork from underneath his hair.

“Oh,” Bilbo said eloquently, “it’s just something Thorin put there for me. I suppose it must be something you dwarves do, for good luck or something?”

Ori’s mouth opened and shut a few times in astoundment, and Bilbo smiled at him. _Oh, surely it can’t come as a surprise that I’ve been accepted as one of the party by now,_ Bilbo thought. Ori’s eyes flicked around on either side of him as if to check that no one else was paying attention to them and he leaned in closer.

“Bilbo, do you truly not know what that means?” Ori asked him, eyes wide in earnestness. A brief moment of confusion flickered across Bilbo’s face. Well, really, how was he to know about dwarvish customs? Surely it wasn’t something rude-

“Let’s get moving,” Thorin interrupted his thoughts once more. “We must be by the mountain as soon as we are able. We are far too exposed in these wastes.” His eyes met Bilbo’s briefly, and he almost seemed to be trying to communicate something more in that split second, and Bilbo nodded slightly to him in encouragement.

He completely forgot that he had been talking to Ori until they were moving, and indeed by then he had even forgotten what had caused the niggling sensation at the back of his mind.

“Sorry, Ori, what was it we were talking about again?” He attempted, but his friend was already in the faraway mindset of the walking.

“Hm? Oh, it was nothing, Bilbo, don’t you worry yourself,” Ori said absently, and it was left at that.

Bilbo felt the faintest burst of comfort in his chest whenever the little clasp bumped against the tip of his ear.

…

Durin’s day arrived, and they were all in place on that craggy mountaintop, braving the wind and awaiting death by dragonfire at any moment, and everything was exactly as the runes on Thorin’s map said it should be. The last rays of sunlight reached them weakly where they lingered, bringing rare moments of warmth to their damp and chilly group.

If Bilbo had been asked back in the Shire to use a word to describe adventures, he would never have picked ‘waiting’ in a million years. And yet, here they were, in the great spaces between the ending and beginning, and it felt as though the majority of all adventuring was indeed the act of simply letting pass time and allowing the important events outside of your own control to arise.

Bilbo gazed out across the barren landscape, waiting for the moon to give them the answers they needed. The height of his perch left him well above the lingering fog, and in the distance the great Lake blended smoothly into its rippling movements. The ruins of an ancient city, human in appearance, rose like pale teeth along the ridge of a great hill before the great broken gates of Erebor. Bilbo was unsure whether it was destroyed by war or dragonfire, but it certainly did nothing more than lend even more loneliness to the view that was laid out before him. _At least the stars are the same,_ Bilbo thought to himself. He pulled his human-made coat closer around him; the people of Laketown had provided them with fresh changes of clothing, well worn but sturdier than the luxuriously impractical nonsense he had brought with him from home. Bilbo suspected that the only pieces they were able to find to fit him were chidren’s clothes, grown out of by their owners far too quickly for further use. He didn’t really mind. At least they were keeping him warmer than he would have been, especially given that they could not risk a fire and stave off the impending dampness that was settling across them like a starlit tomb. Bilbo made no move as a dwarf settled down beside him, brushing off their knees and sighing as they did.

“It’s quite a sight, isn’t it Mister Baggins,” Balin said quietly. He did not seem anxious as the others, but as one of the oldest of the party, Bilbo supposed that he must be well used to waiting. Bilbo nodded in agreement.

“I can’t imagine what it must have been like before… Before the dragonfire.”

Balin hummed, a wistful smile on his face.

“This place was the living jewel of the lake, the crowning glory that burst with riches and wealth to share for all,” Balin said. “Traders would come from all around to see the halls of Erebor and sell their wares to us, to the town of Dale-” he nodded towards the jaw-like ruins on the hill, “-and even the relationship with the elves of the forest was not as poor as it is now.” This pricked at Bilbo’s dampened ears.

“Oh?” He asked, prompting him onward. Balin shook his head, waving one hand blithely at Bilbo.

“Oh, it was a long time ago,” Balin said, “Thorin’s grandfather refused to return a collection of sacred gems that belonged to the woodland king, and I don’t know if it was a moment of madness or just a cultural clash or, well… mutual stubbornness.” Bilbo cannot help but snort at that. _Perhaps it runs in the family,_ Bilbo thought to himself, but Balin did not share in his moment of mirth.

“It truly is a curse, Bilbo,” Balin said, but it wasn’t with reproach. He looked over his shoulder, his weary eyes finding the restless form of Thorin, pacing in front of the rock face like a caged animal.

“I worry for him. He has struggled for so long for this moment…”

Those words Bilbo was brought back to earth, the impossible task ahead of him rising up through time and space to consume him, and he had to swallow hard to fight the sudden urge to _run for his bloody life._

“Well, it’s alright Balin,” he said eventually, attempting to lighten the mood for himself as much as for the dwarf.

“He doesn’t have too much to worry about once that door is opened. It’s only me going down there, after all. If I fail, and the-” he flinched a little, “ _-dragon_ wakes up, at least you’ll have a chance to get everyone away.” Balin turned to look at him once more, taking in the throwaway curl at the corner of Bilbo’s lips and the depreciating shrug that aimed for levity but only showed resignation to a fiery death. A stray beam of dying sunlight, the very last of them indeed before the night settled in proper, glanced off the corner of something hanging near Bilbo’s ear, and his heart sank. He leant forward, and the hobbit stiffened as the dwarf gently tilted his chin to the side so as to look upon the little clasp in his hair. _Oh Thorin,_ Balin thought to himself, and shook his head ever so slightly.

“You don’t know, do you?” Balin asked, and Bilbo’s brow furrowed as he opened his mouth to say something-

“It’s time!” Kili called, and they both looked up to see the moon break through the gently moving clouds. Balin gave him one last sad, knowing look, but Bilbo did not have the time to voice any question he may have had, let alone to choose one, as they all rose to their feet. They stood in tense, bated awe as they waited for the prophecy to fulfill itself.

The moon rose.

Thorin dropped the key.

Bilbo caught it.

The door opened.

Staring into the darkness beyond the open door for a long moment, the dwarves one by one all turned to settle their eyes on Bilbo. The mixture of expressions would almost have been comical if the situation were not so dire. There was Ori, eyes welling up as though Bilbo were already dead; Fili and Kili, twin expressions of surprise and worry making them appear so much younger than they already were; Oin and Gloin, with expectant looks of _well, go on then lad, it’s what you’re here for_ ; Dwalin, strangely stoic in all ways but in his eyes; and then Thorin. Thorin’s expression was such a strange and convoluted mess of things that Bilbo couldn’t even begin to interpret it. No one said anything, though everyone seemed as though they wished to. Bilbo, uncomfortable with the number of eyes placed upon him, cleared his throat and adjusted his clothing in a nervous, fussy way that brought him a brief memory of silk waistcoats and finely sewn summer trousers. The memory gave him strength, and he smiled weakly as he looked around at his companions. 

“Well, I’d better get on with it then,” Bilbo said, and everyone parted around him like a school of fish around a shark. Thorin was the closest to the door and the last of them for Bilbo to pass. He took a single, long look at their leader, his face still twisted in a strange maelstrom of emotions, and then he stepped into the darkness of the mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha! I bet you all thought I was dead!


	10. An Interlude

The silence was eating at the loose edges of his mind, and there was no denying it.

Thorin tried to quell it, to wrest his thoughts away from its hungry jaws but it was tenacious and swirling, unraveling all of his tangled thoughts. He had been bottling and plugging them up behind the quest, the quest, always the quest first. There was nothing else of importance, or so he had told himself, willed himself to believe. Nothing could possibly be more important than the retaking of his ancestral home, his birthright and the birthright of his nephews. He would have given anything to have it back, anything upon the earth or under the skies, and he would have given it gladly and without second thought. He had been so sure of that

And now, sitting in the oppressive and chilly air of the evening, on the very stones where his people faced the greatest catastrophe within their living memory, his certainty was wavering. There was nothing he could do to shore it back up, pile it away into the far corners of his mind. Like a breakwall bending and bloated with floodwater, he could feel the beams bursting, and all of the threads of thought unspooling and bubbling up in a confusing and overwhelming cacophony of realizations.

It was about to drive him bloody mad.

There had been nothing that Thorin could say as Bilbo passed him by. Their eyes met once, briefly, and he felt as though it was the first time he could actually see what had become of their unassuming burglar. Long gone was the stuffy and comfortable creature they had met in the Shire, a person who had seemed to immediately evoke thoughts of tea and crumpets and warm afternoon sunlight in a reading nook. Oh, how that felt a lifetime ago in that moment. Before him, in that moment, Thorin saw instead a person who had proven his worth, his skill, his courage and his kindness ten times, fifty times, a hundred times over. Before him was a creature no longer naïve of the world but no less hopeful, and that creature carried in his shoulders the quiet knowledge of his own strength. Thorin felt a sharp and inexplicable spike of fondness as all of this passed through his mind at once. It warmed his chest, but in some baffling turn of fate, any words he could have possibly uttered (and in his mind he was tripping over all of the different things that he wanted to) seemed to freeze all at once in his throat. He couldn’t even manage so much as “good luck” to the hobbit. Bilbo himself appeared to want to say something, but when looking upon Thorin, frozen and mute, he must have thought better of it. So he simply gave a weary smile and slipped away into darkness.

 _This may be the last time I see him alive,_ passed through his mind, and a shiver spread all the way from his toes right up into his heart. With that single stray thought, the very ground seemed to open up inside him and threaten to swallow him whole. Thorin reeled, taking a step back to hide his unexplainable lapse of composure from the others.

 _Oh come now, Thorin,_ a little voice in his mind that sounded less like himself and more like Kili, _it’s really not that difficult to explain._

He found himself a place to rest heavily against the wall, sliding slowly to a seated position as the others one-by-one drew away from the door to wait. 

Some paced, some took the time to check their stores. Bofur leant against the wall next to the door itself, arms crossed over his chest and puffing madly at his pipe, eyes staring at nothing. Dwalin took Fili and Kili to one side and put them to work fastidiously polishing their weaponry, their eyes glancing up every now and then to the darkened door with haunted, searching looks. Ori had taken to his journal of the adventure with shaking lip.

But Thorin?

Thorin thought, and Thorin thought.

And Thorin burned.

The realization came to him quietly, like a piece of paper drifting down in front of him in the wake of a hurricane, and all of the floodwaters of thought receded.

_I love him,_ as easily as walking through an open door. 

_I love him, and I have sent him to his doom._

The silence was somehow worse with this knowledge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To tide you over before the next chapter is published. :)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm terribly sorry if it seems like a total retread, I just really wanted to explore what would happen in the cinematic universe if Azog got offed before any of the bad stuff could occur in the battle of Five Armies. 
> 
> (Yes, I've read the book. Yes, I know that Azog isn't in the book and they still die. And without giving you any spoilers for my plans on this story, you should all know that this is a FIX-IT fic with a HAPPY ENDING, and that should be enough info. No one likes a dead Durin. Nobody.)


End file.
